Chapter 1: Tender, Leering Darkness
Chapter Text
You’ll be safe there.
Frank’s not sure how far a promise from a woman he had only known for a day would go. As the carriage gets closer to the looming castle, he wonders if maybe she was lying, that she was actually sending him to somewhere far, far away so that she and the rest of London would be safe. But then, she wouldn’t have given him that letter.
The winter landscape around him drains the world of color, as well as warmth. In the back of the carriage, there is nothing to warm his hands. Not that it is especially important. He just doesn't really like having cold hands. But maybe human desires like warmth are beyond him now. Maybe it is all beyond him.
Slowly, the carriage pulls up to the gate in the castle’s wall. Without the driver getting down, without seemingly any interaction at all, the gate begins to raise in front of them. Had she sent word of his imminent arrival ahead of them?
Sitting back against the plush velvet, Frank takes a slow breath and tries to calm down. Anxiety without the beating of one’s heart is an odd feeling, but it doesn't feel any less like he was about to begin shaking out of his boots.
Finally, the carriage slows to a stop inside the walls of the towering castle. Frank hasn’t even tried to look, he fears he might actually faint if he did. No, he foolishly waits until he is being helped out of the carriage to gaze up at the impossibly tall towers around him. That did much more for making him dizzy and anxious, so he rights his head and focuses on who is in front of him.
The mysterious, enigmatic, cryptic, supernatural master of this place, the duke of this castle. Duke Patrick Von Stump.
He’s dressed in thick furs, his body is mostly hidden by the massive coat hung over his shoulders, and his face somewhat hidden by the top hat that feels more like it’s being worn in parody of the English than to complete his outfit. His face is further obscured by the thick, carefully maintained hair on the sides of his face.
“Frank Iero,” he says, and his voice is nothing like Frank would’ve expected it to be.
Frank juts his hand forward before remembering he is not in England anymore, and frantically tries to remember what the proper etiquette is for meeting someone from another country. What country was he in?
Duke Von Stump saves him the embarrassment by taking his hand. “Welcome.”
“Th-thank you.” Frank stands nervously, his bare hand still held in the duke’s gloved one.
Once again, he saves him by letting his hand go and standing tall. He looks to the driver. “Thank you for delivering him. You may go, and extend my thanks to his agent.”
Frank frowns. Agent?
The driver is already on the carriage though, getting the horses moving. Frank wonders how on earth he will get back to London, but forgets the worry the moment he realizes he is alone with Mr. Von Stump now. He turns back to him and finds he has turned around, beginning to walk into the large wooden doors of the castle.
“Follow me, please.”
Frank rushes to keep up, though not close enough to step on the flowing ends of his coat.
The halls of the castle were as cold as the courtyard had been. Their steps echo sharp and distant. Duke Von Stump has on pointed, shining black boots, whose soles are impossibly blacker.
“You must be tired from the journey,” the duke says, peeking over his fur-lined shoulder at Frank. “I’ve had a room made up for you, but your final place of rest will be elsewhere.”
The wording makes Frank’s palms prickle with sweat. “I wasn’t aware that my, um, agent had sent word ahead of me. I’m grateful.”
“Yes, I’m quite lucky to have gotten a heads-up, if you will,” he chuckles, leading Frank up a spiral of stairs. “The walk will be quite long, I apologize. But it will be warmer soon.”
“I don’t mind.” Frank says this to be polite, but it is also a fact. He can’t feel it anymore.
“You would if you were wearing less,” the duke says, and Frank hears an extra quality in his voice. Perhaps he’s being rather literal.
They reach the top of the staircase and go through two heavy wooden doors into a warmly lit hallway. Heat rushes up against Frank’s bare face and hands and he shudders.
“Your room will have a fireplace, lit to warm it for you,” the duke says. “This way.”
They walk down the hall, now on thick carpets and surrounded by sconces with candles, standing candelabras full of candles, tapestries and rugs hanging from the walls. Frank marvels at the craftsmanship of them, the beautiful curving lines and sharp, crisp angles. He almost gets left behind looking at a particular one with a pattern like a ship’s anchor.
Duke Von Stump stops in front of a modest-looking wooden door. “This is your room, for now. We are making up a set of rooms in a nicer area of the castle, but this is the best we could do for you for now.”
“I’m sure it’s perfectly fine,” Frank says immediately.
Duke Von Stump opens the door and follows Frank into the room, a modestly sized room by the castle’s standards and easily twice the size of Frank’s London apartment. He can’t imagine what the duke meant by rooms, plural.
There is a massive rug on the ground, covering the stone underneath with beautiful, colorful scenes of angels and gardens. The fireplace is stone as well, full of crackling logs and a tall flame. In the fire is an odd-looking iron stand, presumably for a tea kettle. The bed is against the far wall, under three tall, thin windows with cross-hatched glass. Curtains drape delicately against the wall, able to shut out light from all three windows at once should you pull the cords. The bed is massive as well, with heavy green blankets and thick blue pillows. There is a small oil lamp by the bed on a table, and the other side table holds a little pamphlet.
“I will be off,” the duke says, stepping back with a duck of his head. “You should get your rest. The journey was long, and you look exhausted.”
All at once, Frank feels the weight of the trip. Now that the anxiety is gone, the fear of what he was getting into is gone, he feels his eyes droop. “Y-yes, thank you again.”
“Should you need anything, all you must do is ask,” the duke says, dipping his head once more before shutting the door, leaving Frank alone in his warm, large room.
Already feeling in a daze from tiredness, Frank only half undresses, tossing his coat and vest at the foot of the bed, a bad habit from living in a small apartment. He kicks off his shoes and squeezes his eyes shut, yawning. Every moment that passes, he feels more and more sleepy. But the pamphlet intrigued him, so he picks it up before climbing into bed with the intention of reading it a bit before sleeping. He only manages to see the words Vampire Coven before succumbing to darkness.
His dreams are fitful. He thrashes in the grasp of something heavy and strong. His dream creates visions of deep, dark eyes and a pale, thin face. Sharp teeth, sharper than any dagger Frank had ever seen, and he screams and screams but no sound comes out.
He tries so hard but he cannot wake himself. The darkness folds over and covers him, taking him down and away from the pale, sharp face. He shivers in the cold void, but is thankful. It comforts him. Cradles him. Holds and envelops. He sinks, further, and feels nothing.
Frank wakes at the sound of Duke Von Stump’s voice.
“Wake up,” the duke was saying, gently from the doorway. Light streams into the room from the fogged windows. It makes Frank feel a bit panicked the moment he sees it, but the duke’s kind face calms him. The duke is dressed in lighter clothes this morning, less heavy for the cold, though still well-layered, all the way up to his throat. “Good morning, Mr. Iero.”
“G-good morning,” Frank says, blinking hard. “I apologize, have I missed breakfast?”
The duke gives him an odd look before shaking his head. “No. I’ve just come to collect you.”
Frank frowns as he gets up, straightening out his shirt. “Will there not be breakfast, my lord?”
The duke snorts. “Do well to remember not to call me that again.”
“My apologies, I didn’t mean-”
“There will be breakfast, but not down here.” The duke motions with one arm down the hall. “Please, come follow me.”
Frank manages to get his shoes back on before abandoning his discarded clothes to follow the duke.
“I’m sorry for not letting you get quite settled,” the duke says, glancing back at him. “But I needed to confirm something first.”
“Confirm what?” Frank asks, but they are interrupted by the sound of a woman screaming.
Frank starts, looking frantically around for her, but Duke Von Stump sighs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t fret. One of my… Hm, one of my associates that lives here is in the middle of something. We will explain it in time.”
“She sounds like she’s being killed,” Frank says thinly, panic still spiking through his chest.
“She is fine,” the duke says, and his tone is heavy and low. Frank feels the words stamp across his brain. “Follow.”
The next few moments are a blur. Frank remembers wanting to turn back and check on the screaming woman, who now sounds as though her throat is being permanently damaged, and the duke taking hold of his hand and nothing. He remembers nothing after that.
And then he is somewhere new, standing in front of two tall, black wooden doors with gold handles. They are in a new hallway, with wood floors and square windows, and Frank belatedly wonders how many years this castle has been here.
“Through here, we can start going through your entry papers,” the duke says, pushing the doors open.
“Entry… papers,” Frank says, still out of sorts, and is once again affronted by the decor. The room is all black and red, black wood floors and deep red curtains covering large windows, black lace peeking out beneath them. It’s a drawing room of sorts, with plush black velvet chairs on carved cherry red wood to contrast the floors, and a large ornate fireplace behind them, roaring with a flame large enough to worry Frank. There are chez lounge chairs, also plush velvet, against either wall, and one door on the right that probably leads to a servant’s hallway.
Duke Von Stump sits in one of the two chairs. “Sit.”
Frank walks mechanically to the chair and lowers himself into it before even getting to think that he doesn’t want to.
“I have your papers here,” the duke says, unfolding a stack of pages from his coat jacket. “I’m sorry they’re not in English. I tried to get a translation, but you came on short notice. You understand, I hope?”
“Y-yes,” Frank stammers, taking the pen afforded to him. “What are these?”
Instead of answering immediately, the duke sits back in his chair, taking his hat off and dusting it of imaginary dust or snow. Or perhaps bad energy. Then, he places it on the low table between them. “Frank Iero. You were the victim of an attack on your person just three short days ago.”
The lack of a question makes Frank’s skin prickle. “Yes?”
“The assailant was found to be what is known as Vampirica Irrationale. An irrational vampire.”
Frank ignores the throb in his neck at the mention of the word. He says tightly, “Yes.”
“After you were hospitalized, you attacked three nursemaids and two doctors,” the duke says, and Frank stares in horror as the memories come back to him. The screaming, the blood, so much delicious blood— “And then you were sent to London’s only Doctor of Vampiric Studies. Who then, after clearing your mind of these things, sent you to me.”
Bile rises in Frank’s throat. He looks frantically around for something to vomit into.
“Anywhere is fine,” the duke says, sounding all too casual, and Frank stumbles up out of his chair to empty the paltry contents of his stomach on the floor.
He is horrified to find that all he vomits up is shining red blood.
Breathing ragged, fast and scared, he remembers the voice of the doctor that calmed his initial rampage.
You are not a monster.
Frank shuts his eyes, hand clutched to his chest, trying to remember more, trying to chase the sound of his voice and find his face again, because something about it is urgently important to remember, but the doctor sinks into darkness once more. The smell of bile and blood burns his nose.
“You were sent to me because you were not yet stable,” the duke says. “But I seem to find that London’s doctor stabilizes new vampires in record time on his own.”
“Why am I here?” Frank asks finally, covering his mouth, unsure what to do about the mess.
“This castle is a place for all the supernaturally peculiar to find their place back in regular society,” the duke says gently. “Or, if you cannot, a place for you to remain, should you want to.”
“And this paperwork,” Frank says, looking to the thick pages.
“Is akin to that of hospital intake paperwork,” the duke promises. “All it asks is for you to outline your symptoms, to tell of what you can recall from the attack, and a promise to allow us to care for you until we deem you fit to leave, should that be your desire.”
Dizzy, Frank sits back down. The pen is still gripped in his hand. “It’s not in English.”
The duke nods. “Again, I apologize for that. We’re nowhere near London, the only person certified to write this paperwork speaks German.”
“I-I don’t speak German,” Frank says, shoulders still tense. He finds himself wishing for the duke to give him an order to calm down.
“I know, but it’s alright, I can translate.” The duke takes the papers again in his hands and begins to read, before noticing Frank is looking rather agitated. “Hm. You must be… I see.”
“See what?” Frank demands, blinking his eyes hard before his hand begins to twitch.
“You are safe here,” the duke says. “Be calm. Be still. I will send for someone to bring you food. You must be starving after emptying your stomach.”
Calmness, stillness, like a warm blanket over Frank’s whole body. Thank God, he thinks.
“Now, listen carefully as I ask these questions,” the duke says, taking the pen from him. “Listen closely.”
Frank’s mind becomes razor sharp, waiting intently.
“I heard him.”
“I did too, but we can’t just barge in!”
“Shh! You two will get us found out…”
“I just want a peek.”
“We all want a peek, but you’re going to have to wait like the rest of us.”
“Both of you, quiet.”
“Did you hear that? Did he just puke?”
“Shh! Don’t you dare open that door!”
“Would you two-”
Come into this room and I will send you all out into the morning sunlight.
Their master’s words send them all into silence, their bodies sinking like cold iron.
“I told you he would know we were here…”
“I knew he’d know, but…”
“If you two get me in trouble, I swear…”
Someone be useful and bring him some blood. He’s going to go feral if he doesn’t get anything soon.
“I want to do it!”
“No, me!”
Michael.
“No fair!”
“Goddamn it!”
“Yes, sir.”
When they finally finish with the paperwork, Frank is feeling jittery again. Not even the words of the duke can calm him anymore. His leg bounces and his eye has begun to twitch. He runs his tongue along his teeth, pressing into the sharp edges of his fangs, wondering if the duke has any blood to drink.
Finally, the servant’s door opens, and a man in all black wearing a black lace veil brings in a tray with a single teacup on it.
Instinct takes him over, and Frank leaps from his chair to snatch the cup from the tray and gulp down the thick red liquid before the duke can even offer it to him. The blood warms him, though his throat cools from it. It’s not nearly enough but it’s able to get his brain working again.
“I apologize,” the duke says, standing. He folds the papers back up and tucks them away. “I didn’t mean for that to take so long.”
“Is there any more,” Frank asks, his stomach already begging for another cup.
“I’m sorry, but only small servings can be given for the first few days.” The duke’s smile is sympathetic, but it fills Frank with dread. “Since you’ve signed these papers, we can begin your rehabilitation promptly.”
“Rehabilitation,” Frank echoes, not remembering a lick of what the duke had outlined as his treatment plan.
“First, we must starve you,” the duke says, looking very sorry. “Then, we teach you to feed.”
“Starve,” Frank repeats. “Feed.”
“Not all vampires are made the same,” the duke explains. “Some are created with the utmost control over themselves. Some, however… Some need a bit of help getting there.”
“What he means is, you’re a Thrall,” the veiled man says, peaking out from behind said veil.
Frank whirls around to stare at him, eyes wild. “What?”
“Sit down,” the veiled man demands, and Frank drops into his chair before he can even think to refuse. “Stand.”
Frank’s head spins as he does, trying to keep up with the commands on an empty stomach.
“Spin around three times to your left,” the veiled man commands, and Frank embarrassingly obeys.
“That is enough,” the duke snaps. “That will be all. Thank you.”
The veiled man says nothing more, nodding to the duke and leaving through the door. Frank stares at it, feeling the urge to follow him. The urge to follow, obey, to oblige, to do as he is told. Thrall.
“I apologize,” the duke says again. “My students can be overzealous when they meet new… patients.”
“Students,” Frank repeats. “He called me a Thrall. What is that?”
“As you may have guessed, it is a vampire that seeks to listen, to obey, and to carry out orders.”
Of course he had guessed, but hearing it out loud made his blood boil with anger.
“I assure you, it is rarely a reflection of the vampire’s personality,” the duke insists. “Vampire types crop up seemingly at random, and can sometimes be passed on to newly turned victims by their assailants.”
Franks feelings get muddied. Perhaps the person that bit him was also a Thrall, sick of taking orders.
“But all of this we can unpick in time.” The duke puts a hand on Frank’s shoulder, making him jump. “The way to break out of your Thrall is to first starve you, which may sound counterintuitive.”
“Very much so,” Frank says flatly.
“It will bring you to the brink of insanity,” the duke admits. “It is not pleasant. But it is also not fatal, please remember that.”
It’s so close to an order, Frank feels calmed again. “And then I learn to… You said feed?”
The duke nods. “Yes. Feeding is different than simply drinking blood from a teacup. You haven’t used your fangs for feeding yet.”
Flashes of the faces of horrified nursemaids and doctors make Frank’s shoulders tense.
“What you did before would be referred to as bloodlusting. Unable to stop yourself, you gorged on five people and then purged it all from your stomach.” The duke grimaces as Frank’s face goes pale. “I apologize, but from now on we need to be very clear about the realities of your situation. All our situations.”
Frank looks to him. “All of you?”
“Well, many of us.” The duke smiles. “You are not alone here, Frank Iero. A great deal of vampires and other supernaturals are here, all trying to do what you are trying to do. Reenter society, regain control of your impulses, learn about yourself, your new abilities, and feel normal again.”
Despite his confusion, Frank does want all those things. All of that, and to find the doctor again.
You are not a monster.
Something is missing from that statement, something comes after it, but Frank can’t think straight through the haze of hunger and anguish.
The duke had said this wasn’t fatal, that he was incapable of dying from it, had said it so surely that Frank had trusted him without needing a command, but he was starting to question if that was just for his peace of mind. It felt as though his stomach was imploding and being torn apart. It felt like his insides were melting and freezing over. At one point he was sure it had been days, yet no one had come to him in his smaller room near the bottom of the castle.
Frank had insisted he stay there for the starving portion of his rehabilitation. The duke agreed it may be easier if he take it one step at a time, not introducing too many new stimuli at once. Yet now, Frank regretted it. He was so far, what if the duke couldn’t hear him if he really started worrying he was dying?
If, he thinks with a laugh. He does think he’s dying. He feels like it. This feels so close to what he felt when he was attacked, his blood forcibly pulled from him, his life fading with every greedy mouthful. His insides burning and frosting over. His mind on fire in pools of ice.
“Von Stump!” Frank shouts blindly, feeling rage build in his exhausted body. “When I find you, I will kill you!”
He slams a tired fist again the door, his body sagging. The fire is out, he can’t even set himself ablaze if he wanted to. Not that it sounded like a quick way out of this misery.
“Small portions,” Frank says weakly, feeling tears form in his eyes. “You said small portions! Please! Please, can I have a small portion? Please, I don’t want to die!”
As his tears made miniature pools on the cold stone floor, Frank hears no one outside his door, and agony rips through him.
“One portion!” he screams, his throat straining. “Please! One order!”
No one responds. Nothing hears him. He is utterly alone and ignored.
“Please!” he sobs. He slams his head into the ground, feeling anger and rage build again, giving him fresh strength that he uses to scream and bang his fist against the door. “I will kill you!”
He must sound utterly monstrous. Yet, the moment he thinks that, he hears the voice of the doctor again.
You are not a monster.
Frank’s heaving breaths hitch. His mind unfolds.
You are not a monster. You are a person. You must never forget that.
The face of the doctor, his face becomes so clear. Soft smile, dark hair tied back, small square glasses resting on an overly angular nose. His chin is square too, and his jaw, and his shoulders, and Frank holds onto that image of his face because it is the only thing that has stopped his stomach from dominating his thoughts.
Not a monster. He sinks to the ground, curling in on himself. He is a person. He is not a monster. He is a person. He is not a monster, he is a person, he is not a monster, he is a person, he is not a monster, he is a person, he is not a monster, he is a
“-person. You must never forget that.”
Frank stares blankly at the doctor. He smiles back at his patient, satisfied with his advice. Frank lurches forward, teeth bared, and the doctor’s smile does not falter, because Frank doesn’t get anywhere near him. There are chains around his neck and chest. He is bound to the wall.
The doctor looks satisfied with this too, pulling his clipboard from under his arm and scribbling down notes. “Now, let’s see… No doves, no horses…”
Frank’s eyes are trained on the doctor’s throat, on full display because of his chosen hair style.
The doctor looks up from his clipboard. “Forgive me, but I need to diagnose this properly.”
Frank tries once more to jolt forward and take a bite out of his neck.
“Close your eyes,” the doctor says with unwavering authority. Frank’s vision cuts out entirely. “As I thought…”
“As I thought…”
Frank comes to slowly, the world blurry over him. He reaches toward the image of the doctor, but the whiteness of the hospital fades and dims until the room is gray and brown, stone and rugs. And Duke Von Stump is over him, candle by his side. He takes Frank’s lifted hand, gently placing it back down.
“You’re ready now,” the duke says, and Frank can’t even comprehend what he is talking about until he is being forced upright.
Because that is when he sees they are not alone, and there is someone sitting across from him with their neck bare and Frank’s mouth waters, his stomach clenching so hard he winces. He’s so hunger-blind that he can’t recognize any features of the person across from him, he is so hungry.
“Wait,” Duke Von Stump says firmly. All of Frank’s body fights the command. “No. Do not drink, do not feed from him. Stay.”
An animalistic cry rips from Frank’s throat. Just one taste, just the smallest portion, he said small portions—
“No,” the duke says again, hand on Frank’s chest. He had started to move forward against the command. “Sit back, wait. You may not drink.”
Frustration and fury blend together, Frank reaches to grab the duke’s arm.
“No,” he snaps, and Frank’s hand freezes, stuttering in the air. “Put your hand down. Now.”
Frank’s hand drops, but his arm spasms. “J-just a small- please-”
“No.” The duke’s voice gets firmer, more strict, and it pulls a pitiful, agonized moan from Frank.
“Please!” he begs, because he must, he must drink something, he must eat something. He will die if he doesn’t.
“No!” The duke shows his own rage, and Frank feels part of himself recoil and try to reign himself in, fearing retaliation from his master, but the starving part of him is ravenous, he doesn’t want to listen, he wants to drink.
Frank reaches once again for the duke’s hand.
“No, Frank, stop!” the duke urges as Frank finally shoves his hand away, surging forward and taking hold of the man’s shoulders, his mouth watering in anticipation, the thrum of his pulse under his hands sends pure excitement through Frank’s whole body.
“No!”
The dukes cry is ignored, Frank sinks his teeth into the man’s neck, finally tasting the blissful metallic flush of fresh blood against his tongue, and he cannot stop once he starts. He’s so grateful for the full, rushing mouthfuls of blood. His head is buzzing, pure relief surging through him, and he almost doesn’t hear the soft murmur of the man he is drinking from.
“It’s okay now,” he’s saying. “You’re safe now.”
The words snap Frank out of his hunger. He unlatches his jaw from the man’s neck and shoves himself back, horrified. Blood drips from the bite in his neck, a man with dark hair and eyes, whose soft features are on pale white skin, whose blood drips from Frank’s mouth.
“Frank, drink more,” the duke says, and confusion is all he feels.
“What?” Frank looks at him in shock. “What on earth-?”
“Take another bite,” the duke commands, and Frank only stares at him, appalled.
“No!” Frank belatedly wipes his mouth, his face turning red. “N-no, I will not!”
To his further confusion, the duke smiles wide. The man he’d drank from is also smiling.
“Wh-what?” Frank feels exposed, though he’s fully dressed.
“You’ve just passed your feeding test,” the duke said.
Foggy memories of explaining the process of all this come back to Frank. The blind hunger, the repeated commands not to drink, the (hopeful) eventual break of the Thrall, of the hold as the duke had called it.
A new wave of relief sends Frank back on his butt, his head spinning.
“Now, we can really begin your rehabilitation.”
Chapter 2: Questions Upon Questions, an Abundance of Answers
Summary:
Frank settles in, and familiarizes himself with the duke's castle and its fanged inhabitants.
Chapter Text
His rooms are twice the size of his last. Standing in the doorway, Frank feels very much like he is a child again. Somehow the bed is taller, more extravagant, more plush than the last. The windows have heavier curtains, the wood floors plush with rugs. The chairs by the fireplace are draped lavishly with blankets and plush pillows. So much of it is plush, Frank wonders if it is to combat the sharp, violent nature of vampires. Or perhaps that is a misconception.
“I hope it’s to your liking,” the duke says, and Frank belatedly laughs at the idea of it not being good enough.
“It is much more than I need,” he says, looking around.
“Well, we take care of our own here,” the duke says. His tone tells Frank that there is more weight to his words than he can understand. “The room on the left is the dressing room, through that is the bath. The other side is a personal lounge room, or if you’d like it to be something else, we can fit it to your tastes.”
Instantly, as if he were a child, he thinks of a library room all to himself. But later, he chides, asking for that is too much. He turns to the duke. “Thank you, my lord, for everything.”
Despite telling him never to call him that, the duke smiles at him. “You are very welcome. And please, there’s no need for such formality here. Call me whatever you like.”
“I prefer to refer to formality,” Frank insists. “If I might speak openly, I feel indebted to you in the normal sense. I feel I owe you that kind of formality.”
The duke sighs. “If you’re more comfortable that way.”
“I am.”
The duke nods. “Alright then. But if anyone takes that as permission to make you the butt of a joke, remind them that it is not.”
Frank frowns in confusion, but nods anyway.
“Would you like to stay here and get settled?” the duke asks. “I know you don’t have much by way of luggage, but it may be a good idea to rest after…”
Frank shakes his head slightly. “I’m not the least bit tired. I would love to see more of the castle, if I could be permitted to ask.”
“Of course.”
Duke Von Stump leads him through the tall hallways of this wing of the castle. Wood floors, updated interiors, paintings on the walls instead of rugs and tapestries. The floors have carpeting in them in these hallways, along with rugs at the foot of each door. Every so often they pass a fireplace, unlit and stocked with wood.
“The winter months can be brutal,” the duke says as they pass another modest fireplace.
“I thought the cold didn’t affect vampires?” Frank says hesitantly. It’s not that he doesn’t want to know more about his new way of living, it’s just that it feels intrusive or perhaps offensive to not know.
But the duke smiles over his shoulder at him. “We are resilient to the cold, indeed. You probably didn’t feel bothered at all when you first arrived. But how quickly did the fire in your room warm you up?”
“Very quickly,” Frank says. He remembers the crushing heat he fell asleep to, waking to the fire having been put out for him.
“Vampires have been found to be extremely resilient to the cold, but also extremely susceptible to the heat.” The duke taps his knuckles against the next fireplace they pass. “However, the does not mean that vampires are entirely unbothered by the cold. For long periods in very low temperatures, it’s been found that vampires begin to freeze.”
Frank frowns. “Freeze?”
“Completely. Inside and out,” the duke says, not looking at him. “Horrible thing to learn on accident.”
A shiver slithers down Frank’s spine as he continues following the duke.
“Anyway, we keep these well stocked in case we get a particularly bad blizzard up here. Because we can stand the cold so well, it can be hard to tell when it’s gotten too cold.”
“Very clever of you,” Frank mutters nervously.
They walk through another set of doors, Frank feeling completely lost, and come upon a large sitting room. One side has a set of couches near a fireplace, and the other has a table and pianoforte, as well as a violin tucked behind it, in front of another fireplace. The room is brightly decorated in blues and pinks, delicate flowers tracing along the rug covering the castle’s dark black wood flooring. The ceiling is beautifully plastered with matching curling flowers and painted with the same blues and pinks.
“This is one of our lounging rooms,” the duke says, glancing around.
“It’s lovely,” Frank says, not knowing what else to say.
“I expected there to be someone here,” the duke says absently. “Hm. Anyway. You may use this room if you are inclined to, it’s usually quite lively in here during the night. I’m not sure where everyone’s gone off to, but I’m sure soon it will be full of noise once more.”
Frank glances at the light coming in from the windows. “Night?”
Yet again, the duke smiles at him. “You have yet to meet everyone in the castle. Let us track down someone who can better explain the state of the sun.”
What on earth does that mean, is what Frank thought in the moment. Now, sitting across from a woman veiled in all white, her raven black hair peaking out from underneath, he wishes he had taken the duke at his word. Who cared if there was light outside? If the duke said it was nighttime, it was nighttime.
“The movement of the sun is no business of mine,” the woman says, her voice irreverent and bored. “We should not be forced to become nocturnal beasts.”
“I was hoping for a full explanation, Miss Ballato,” the duke says, somewhat uncomfortable. He stands by Frank’s chair, hands clasped in front of him.
Miss Ballato sighs, and Frank swears she rolls her eyes, even thought he can’t see them. “I am a magician, of sorts. Does that word make sense?”
“Magician,” Frank repeats. “I’m to assume you don’t mean from a carnival.”
She laughs, her veil billowing out toward him. “No. I am a magician in the sense that I can manipulate forces unseen to mortal eyes.”
The words trip through Frank’s mind. “I see.”
“The light you see, the warmth you feel, assume it is like fire without the fire.”
Yet again, her words make no sense to him, but he nods to try and get out of here faster.
When they leave the woman’s dark, white room, Frank lets out a breath he didn’t mean to be holding.
“She is a bit…” The duke stops himself, making a face.
“Suffocating,” Frank supplies in a huff.
The duke laughs. “Yes, I would agree.”
When they have seen the other sitting rooms that go mostly unused in the winter, the massive library that makes Frank’s heart swell with excitement, the dining room used for special occasions, the greenhouse lush with plants, and the courtyard at the castle’s center, the duke leads him to the lower section of the back of the castle, through older halls and on those same patterned rugs he remembers.
“Finally, we have the gardens,” the duke says, motioning out one of the nearby windows.
Frank looks and nearly chokes on his own spit. Though there is light coming in from outside, when he looks, the gardens are blanketed in darkness. Darkness, and snow. The plants are all dead and the stone is soaked and frozen.
“I can’t show them to you properly,” the duke says unnecessarily. “We will have to wait for spring. It’s why the Blue Room is so popular during the winter, you’ll find.”
Instead of asking about the plants, or the fact that night and day are flipped within the castle walls, or why he hasn’t seen anyone else yet, Frank turns and asks a different burning question. “Why has everyone I’ve met so far been veiled?”
The duke frowns. “Thrall are very delicate to retrain, pardon my verbiage. Often, when a Thrall looks into the eyes of another vampire, they cannot help but listen to their every word, fallow their every order. You’ve broken through my hold on you, but Thrall are very delicate, as I’ve said.”
“So they are veiled for my sake,” Frank says. He feels somewhat guilty, though he isn’t sure why.
“They are. The fact that you no longer follow my orders is a very good sign, but I want to be safe. I’ve asked them to veil themselves until I’m positive you are free of the rest of your Thrall.”
Frank hums thoughtfully. “So the woman, the magician, she is a vampire too?”
The duke nods, motioning for Frank to follow him back the way they came. “She is. She is what we call a Blind. She cannot see through her own eyes, only through the eyes of those she has bitten.”
Frank starts. “What? That sounds horrible.”
“Quite,” the duke agrees.
Frank wants to ask if she’s bitten anyone in the castle, whether her sight extends to hearing what is said around those she’s bitten, whether or not they have real privacy in that case. But all those questions feel intrusive, so instead he says, “What an awful fate.”
Nodding once more, the duke takes a breath. “She has been adamant to not bite a single soul in the castle, despite my offer for her to use my eyes. She refuses, violently refuses, and prefers to stay blind to her surroundings.”
Frank searches for something to say all the way to the nicer, newer hallways. “But she could still instigate my… Thrall?”
“Oh yes,” the duke says, turning to give him a wide-eyed, serious look. “Any vampire, Blind or otherwise, can instigate a Thrall. It’s why rehabilitation is so important. To regain one’s autonomy over himself, to refuse the commands given by one not authorized to demand them. Thrall can be taken in by any vampire.”
The idea makes Frank feel cold inside. “Then I greatly appreciate you asking for them to be veiled.”
“And they will remain veiled,” the duke says, somewhat loudly. “Until you are cleared.”
Frank understands he isn’t talking to him, and peeks over his shoulder to see a face quickly hidden under a blue veil.
The duke turns in their direction and sighs. “Please be mindful of our newest resident, Mr. Toro.”
“It’s just so hard to see where I’m going,” the man under the veil complains. He is tall, dressed in black and blue, with brown curly hair tied back at the nape of his neck. It’s quite a bit longer than is fashionable, but Frank assumes they don’t have a hairdresser here.
“I don’t care,” the duke says sternly. “You will remain veiled in the presence of all Thrall still in rehabilitation. To do otherwise is insulting.”
Mr. Toro nods sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”
“Now that you’re here, though,” the duke says, looking like he’s gotten an idea. “Why don’t you take Mr. Iero with you to the library. He was quite impressed by our collection, I’m sure he could help you with reorganizing it.”
Usually, Frank would’ve been offended to have his time offered up for him, but the idea of getting to go back to the library fills him with energy.
“You’d rather reorganize books than rest?” Mr. Toro says incredulously.
“Yes,” Frank says immediately. “I would much prefer to help reorganize your vast library, especially if it means I can sneak a few back to my rooms.”
The duke laughs, and Mr. Toro holds out his hands.
“I don’t understand you,” Mr. Toro says with a chuckle. “But alright. You’re going to be the one shelving though, since I won’t be allowed to take this off. Are you alright taking orders from me?”
The question is very clearly to be polite of his being a Thrall. “Yes, it’s alright. As long as I get my hands on some of those books.”
“These go on Q-141,” Mr. Toro says after peaking under his veil at the stack of books. Frank dutifully scoops them up in his arms and heads off for the shelf. He feels like he’s floating among these tomes, some ancient, some recently published, and almost half of them in English no less. “I don’t know why Von Stump doesn’t just put them away himself.”
Frank ignores Mr. Toro’s sigh as he slides the books satisfyingly into place.
“He could, you know,” Mr. Toro goes on, and Frank glances to see him checking the next stack of books. “Wave of his hand, and all that…”
Frank returns with empty hands. “What kind of vampire is he?”
“You can’t tell?” Mr. Toro says more than asks, with a laugh. Then, he sobers, clearing his throat. “Sorry. He’s a Sire.”
The word means nothing to Frank.
“Which means he is akin to a king to other vampires,” Mr. Toro explains. “He has many abilities, more than just authority. He could command these books into their rightful places and they all would comply without hesitation.”
“You mean- are you saying he can move objects without touching them?” Frank asks, shocked.
“Exactly,” Mr. Toro says with an emphatic nod. “It’s quite a sight!”
Somewhere, a door slams, and their excitement is stalled by the sound of stomping getting closer to them. Frank picks up a book for some kind of protection, though from what he doesn’t know. Mr. Toro turns toward the doors to the library, and Frank can’t read his expression because of the veil.
The heavy steps get closer, until a shadow passes by the doors, seen through the small seam under the doors. Frank watches the shadow fly right by, accompanied by the heavy steps of boots worn for the snow. Tension releases from Mr. Toro’s shoulders that Frank hadn’t seen before.
“That must be Brendon,” he says absently.
“Is he another…?” Frank isn’t sure what he planned to say, vampire or maybe patient, but whatever it is, Mr. Toro fills in the blanks.
“One of Duke Von Stump’s success stories,” Mr. Toro says, and Frank can hear him making a face. “He is a Thrall like you, he did very well overcoming that. When he finally left the castle, Von Stump had set him up in France, somewhere opulent and overly fashionable. He preferred it, but then…”
Frank didn’t need to be told what probably happened. Brendon was likely driven out when the French revolted against their ruling class. Frank had heard of beheadings, hangings, burning buildings and fighting in the streets. It all turned his stomach, the idea of such violence even being necessary. But from what he’d heard, it absolutely had been.
“Anyway.” Mr. Toro shakes his head slightly. “I can’t imagine he’s here because he wants to be. The state of the castle is far below his standards.”
That doesn’t surprise Frank, assuming Brendon had been hiding among the bourgeoisie.
They go back to organizing the books. Frank prefers books to people most of the time, though he isn’t sure it wasn’t just because he’d spent so much time in hospital before being turned. So much time, in fact, that his family eventually had stopped coming to visit when they heard he was in for something new. Which isn’t to say they didn’t care for his health, it was more to say that he was sick so often that they were no longer worried for him dying, nor did they feel the sense of urgency to check on him. So, he had a lot of time to read, and books were blissfully powerful in their ability to send him elsewhere in his mind.
“What kind of vampire are you?” Frank asks this apropos of nothing, walking back to the table now scantly stacked with books.
Mr. Toro looks up, surprised, behind his blue veil. “I’m not sure yet.”
Frank tilts his head in confusion.
“It’s why I’m still here,” Mr. Toro explains. “I know I’m not Thrall, I know I’m not Blind, and I know I’m not a Sire. Further than that, we haven’t been able to figure me out.”
“How curious,” Frank says, picking up another book to shelve.
“Curious indeed.” Mr. Toro sighs. “We’ve been waiting for the weather to get better to see if I’m any kind of elemental type.”
“Elemental?” Frank repeats, his mind straining to imagine what that might mean.
“Some vampires, like Green Vampires, can alter the life of plants,” he says absently. “Though I doubt I’m Green.”
“You look blue to me,” Frank says dryly, smirking.
Mr. Toro stares for a moment before laughing, blowing his veil out from his face. “I suppose I must!”
Frank laughs, taking the book to the shelf. “I hope you figure it out soon. There’s nothing more upsetting than a mystery left unsolved.”
Frank had been talking about mystery novels, but Mr. Toro quiets before responding, which tells Frank that he very much agrees. “Thank you. I hope so too.”
When Frank and Mr. Toro are finally done with the books, and after Frank takes a small stack of books to his rooms, they sit together in the Blue Room, a fresh pot of tea between them.
They had been talking about the Blue Room’s spring-like decor, Mr. Toro explaining that during the winter months, everyone preferred to be where it felt the least like winter. The summer, he explained, was everyone’s favorite season on the mountain. Frank shared that summer in London regularly killed those that could not afford to cool off properly, and Mr. Toro listened with horrified silence.
Then, the doors to the Blue Room fly open, and they both return their teacups to their saucers to avoid spilling on the expensive rugs.
A tall man with perfectly styled hair in a careful wave, a low-set brow with dark eyes beneath, clothed in bright, heavy cloaks that look very obviously French, storms into the room and looks right at Frank.
Instantly, despite all his work getting free of his initial Thrall, he feels the pull to obey.
“For the love of God,” the man says, shielding his eyes. As fast as it had snapped into place, the connection falls away. “At least warn me you have a new Thrall.”
Behind him, the duke catches up to him, huffing angrily. “If you would slow down, I could have warned you.”
Frank keeps his eyes squarely on the floor while the duke finds Brendon a veil. He only looks up when he feels the duke’s steady hand on his shoulder.
“It’s alright,” he says, gentle but still clearly annoyed.
Frank looks up to see Brendon has donned a white veil that perfectly matches his outfit.
“I apologize,” Brendon says, adjusting his veil to likely do the least amount of damage to his hairstyle. “Had I known you were here, I would never have looked you in the eye.”
“It’s alright,” Frank says, not wanting to keep everyone’s attention for so long. “You didn’t know.”
“He would have if he would have stopped storming around my castle before I could speak,” the duke says in a low, irritated tone. “Mr. Urie, this is Mr. Iero. He came to us very recently, so I didn’t have the time to send you a letter.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to send a letter,” Mr. Urie says bitterly. “I haven’t written to you in a while, I apologize for that. I also apologize for running around like that, but I was looking for-”
A secret door opens and interrupts them, and through that door comes the man dressed all in black that Frank had not quite met before, but who had been there when he was going through the paperwork with the duke. His black lace veil sways as he walks into the room.
“Michael,” Mr. Urie says, and Frank might be reading into things, but he sounds horribly sad.
“Brendon,” the man in black says, turning to Frank to give him a small nod.
Frank nods back, though he is terrible confused. No one has introduced him properly.
“Mr. Iero, this is Mr. Way,” the duke says, realizing this at the same time.
And Frank swears he means to say hello, or something, but his mind comes to a sudden and violent halt when he hears that name.
Mr. Way, you have a new patient.
“Mr. Iero?” the duke says gently, and looks between them as if trying to make sure Mr. Way’s eyes are hidden. “Are you alright?”
“Y-yes,” Frank shakes himself of the memory of the nurse, because this cannot possibly be the same Mr. Way. “Sorry, I think I’m more tired than I thought I was. I should retire.”
The duke doesn’t argue, nor do Mr. Toro or Mr. Urie, as Frank stands quickly and excuses himself from the room. The only person that seems to want to keep him there, a hand twitching as if to physically stop him before thinking better of it, is the veiled Mr. Way.
Frank doesn’t look back until he gets all the way in his room, feeling the shadow of something creeping behind him in his memory.
“Mr. Way, you have a new patient,” the nurse says, her tone professional and strained. Frank has a twirled rag tied around his head, keeping him from being able to use his mouth to bite, to eat, to consume as he so intensely desires.
The moment the doctor looks up, he scoffs, scandalized. “Take that off him at once.”
“Sir, he killed five people,” the nurse says sternly. “I don’t feel comfortable-”
“Imagine how he must feel,” the doctor interrupts, getting up from his desk and taking Frank’s arm from her, then realizes his hands are tied behind his back. “Good Lord, you people are so barbaric…”
The nurse is dismissed, and Frank is unrestrained. The moment he has his hands back, he reaches to grab the doctor, to bite him, to tear into his throat. The doctor laughs.
“You’ll find nothing of substance,” he says, calmly and firmly bringing Frank’s hands to the edge of a hospital bed. “I apologize for your treatment by the hospital staff. They’re very new to things like this.”
Frank’s hands are put into cuffs attached to the bed, to keep him from getting up. Once he’s restrained again, the doctor removes the rag from his mouth and tuts.
“I keep telling them not to use rags like this,” he says, ignoring the way Frank keeps trying to snap his jaw around his fingers to examine the red marks left by the rag. “Doesn’t look bad though. Thankfully.”
The doctor steps away, setting the rag on this desk and locking the office door. When he turns back, he watches Frank carefully pry his hands free from the bed’s cuffs and lurch across the room at him. The doctor laughs again when he catches Frank’s shoulders before he can sink his teeth into the man’s shoulder.
“I see!” he says, delighted. “Very good!”
Frank has no capability for confusion, only a want to eat, consume, make them bleed.
The doctor once again avoids being bitten as he maneuvers Frank to the opposite wall, where clean white chains are waiting to hold him back this time. His arms are free, his jaw free to snap at the air, but he pulls and pulls and the chains are around his whole torso, keeping him to the wall.
“I wish they used something that wouldn’t hurt you,” the doctor says absently, securing the chains in place. “London is supposed to be the leader of the world in all aspects, and yet we treat those that are different from us so rashly with fear and hatred…”
Frank wakes to the sound of his curtains being opened, and he jolts upright in bed.
A veiled woman starts, her fingers freezing on the curtains. She is dressed in an elaborate red dress and a red lace veil. Just under the lace, Frank can see she wears bright red lipstick.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, letting the curtain go and stepping away. “I should have- they usually don’t-”
“It’s fine,” Frank says belatedly.
She stares at him behind her veil for a while, then tentatively reaches to pull the curtains open further. “You’re a light sleeper.”
There is nothing to say to that, so he says nothing as she works quietly and quickly to tie the curtains open, then goes to the opposite side of the room where there is a rolling cart of many trays of teacups and plates of something Frank can’t quite see. Then, she rolls it to him, and he feels conflicted emotions; relief and disgust. On a plate, next to a teacup of freshly brewed tea, is a jelly-like circle of something dark and red.
“Breakfast,” she says quietly. “I usually leave it for you to eat when you wake. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s fine,” he says, accepting the tray. “Thank you…”
“Miss Nestor,” she says.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Nestor,” he says.
“And you, Mr. Iero.” She bows slightly before turning to leave. Before she closes his door, she looks back. “Duke Von Stump asks that you visit him in the library today, after breakfast, at your earliest convenience.”
“Thank you,” he says again, and then she is gone.
He ignores the feeling of relief that comes from eating the blood pudding, drinking his tea to get rid of the taste. Then he gets up to dress, deciding he will have a bath later instead of first thing in the morning, and belatedly realizes that the blood in that pudding had tasted very familiar. The image of the man he’d drank from during his test to break his Thrall comes to him, and he wonders if it’s the same man’s blood. Yes, he decides, it has to be the same.
Not that it matters, he supposes, leaving his rooms promptly after getting dressed. He looks down and realizes that he’s mis-buttoned his vest and tuts at himself, stopping to undo and redo the buttons.
The delay makes the next series of events possible. Frank stops to re-button his vest, eyes down at his own chest, just as someone throws a door open somewhere in the hall. Frank is engrossed in his buttons, so he does not see the figure barreling toward him, who is coincidentally not looking up from the papers in his hands, and he collides with the vest-bothered man in the hall, sending them both on their behinds in the hallway.
“Christ!” Frank shouts in surprise, looking up finally.
“I’m so sorry-” the man is saying, but his veil has fallen away, and it’s the man in black, Mr. Way, and they are staring at one another. His face is thin and pale, some might say gaunt, and his eyes are wide and colorful. His hair is short, messy like he doesn’t bother to style it.
And Frank feels no Thrall try to take him over. He simply stares at this face, so different from the doctor in his memory, and wonders how they could share the name Way and not be related.
Mr. Way shields his eyes the moment he realizes his veil is gone. “I’m so sorry! I-I should’ve been looking where I was going, I can’t believe I-”
“It’s okay,” Frank says, looking down at where his veil has fallen across the papers he was looking through. They’re all written in German. “I feel alright looking at you.”
Mr. Way relaxes in knowing that, picking his veil up and glancing sheepishly at Frank. “I’m sorry for running into you.”
“It’s alright,” Frank says, helping him pick up his papers. “I was distracted as well.”
They stand up and Frank finishes buttoning his vest.
“I managed to miss a button,” he explains, and Mr. Way smiles, surely thankful they’ve both moved passed his blunder. “What are those papers?”
Mr. Way looks down at them, frowning. “Just some records Duke Von Stump is keeping on Mr. Toro. I was trying to compare them to my brother’s notes, but some of them are missing.”
His brother. “Your brother works here too?”
“No, he’s—” Mr. Way seems to realize something, and his mouth clamps shut. “I apologize. I’m not supposed to speak about it. But he doesn’t work here.”
“Oh.” Frank wishes he could just say what he already assumes. But maybe he’s wrong.
“Mr. Way, where is your veil?” The sharp words come from the duke, who has appeared at the end of the hallway.
Mr. Way dons his veil before Frank can stick up for him, turning around. “We ran into each other, it fell off.”
The duke makes no move to placate his blatant anxiety.
“Some of the notes are missing,” he goes on, lifting the papers toward him.
The duke marches over, takes the papers, scans and flips through them, then sighs in a huff and hands them back. “Well, at the first chance, send him a letter and ask for whatever notes he can offer us on the topic.”
Mr. Way nods to the duke, then to Frank, and then he’s off down the hall the opposite way he had been heading before.
The duke looks to Frank. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Frank says. “Our eyes met, but I felt nothing.”
“Good,” the duke says, brushing off his anger, or perhaps annoyance, and smiles. “Miss Nestor told you to meet me in the library?”
“Yes, I was on my way when-” Frank stops, the rest of his sentence obvious.
The duke nods, then leads him on toward the library.
It’s on the way that Frank suddenly worries he’s put the books away wrong, or perhaps the books he snuck to his room weren’t supposed to leave the library. His anxiety dissipates, however, when they arrive and Frank sees one of the library’s tables set with tea and a stack of books.
“Today, I thought we could do some research,” the duke says, motioning for Frank to sit. Once he does, and the duke sits as well, he settles into his seat. “I noticed you seemed eager to get ahold of some books.”
“I used to read a lot while I was in hospital,” Frank says, picking up his teacup and breathing in the scent of something herbal and light. “I was sick very often as a child, and as an adult.”
“That’s terrible,” the duke says sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“It allowed me ample time to read myself into other places,” Frank says with a smile. He sips his tea as the duke picks up the top book on his stack.
“Well, I wanted to let you feed that obsession, or curiosity. How much do you know about vampires?”
“Very little,” Frank says, taking the book. It is titled Categories of Vampirica and bears Duke Von Stump’s full name and title. “Only what you’ve told me, and what rumblings there are in London.”
“I thought so,” the duke says, sipping his own tea. “I thought it might be a nice activity to have you read through some of my published works on the topic, with me here to answer any questions you might have.”
Frank doesn’t usually like reading with others, but the curiosity is too great not to immediately pry the book open and read.
The first page he opens to, ironically, is the chapter on Thrall.
They are often unaware of their actions when first turned, the paragraph Frank lands on begins. Thrall are often the least able to control themselves when first turned, unlike that of the Sire, which can control others within the first hours of being turned. Thrall, unlike other Vampirica, are highly susceptible to the will of other Vampirica, and are unable to refuse a direct order when they are under full control of another Vampirica. They may believe their actions to be their own will, perhaps even believing that the order was never given, and have acted purely on their own. But a Thrall under another Vampirica’s control is never acting of their own will. Even the most carefully broken Thrall can still be acting of an old, powerful command, not unlike that of a human hypnotized by a hypnotist.
Frank’s eyes are glued to the page, taking in everything he can about his new nature. The duke sips his tea, picking up a book of his own to peruse while Frank goes about his information gathering.
To break a Vampirica’s hold on a Thrall, they must first be starved completely of all blood and human foods. This is essential, because the process of breaking Thrall must be one where the Thrall in question is desperate to disobey. I have not found a better way to break Thrall than starvation, the need to survive is too great.
However, this does not mean the Thrall is fully free of another Vampirica’s hold. Breaking through becomes easier over time, but Thrall are the most susceptible to being subtly taken control of. During the rehabilitation of Thrall, I find it is prudent to veil all Vampirica in their vicinity. This will avoid accidental holds by well-meaning Vampirica, and allow the Thrall to remain in control of himself while acclimating to the other aspects of his new life. Veils do not need to be thick fabric, and in fact I have found lace works quite well for both parties, as it allows the veiled Vampirica to see and still protects the Thrall from accidentally falling into their hold.
Thrall are not a lower caste of Vampirica, and I must state this with a large amount of emphasis. Just because they are susceptible to the hold of other Vampirica does not mean they are any less powerful. They have a subset of abilities all their own, and often can only use them when they are under the hold of another Vampirica. Part of their nature is to obey, yes, but another is to protect. Through my research of Thrall, having helped rehabilitate many in my lifetime, I have found that a commonality in breaking their final Thrall is the urge to protect. They have an intense urge to protect the Vampirica who often first took hold, and often that hold is so great that it must be broken many times before the Thrall can finally have his full autonomy back.
In all cases of successful Thrall Break, the Vampirica whose hold is strongest must be present in order to break it. This can often be complicated by the Thrall not knowing who placed their original hold on them. Tracking down Vampirica becomes increasingly difficult when considering the reclusive nature of just about every type and subtype aside from the Sire.
Frank flips to a new chapter, endlessly intrigued, taking only a moment to sip his tea before stopping on a chapter that follows his curiosity.
The Sire is what many call the “King of Vampires,” though the term is not accurate in the slightest. There is no sovereignty that comes with Vampirica Sire, nor is there any actual land or nation the Sire comes into possession of upon turning. A king is not a king simply because he is a king. Much like a Sire is not a king simply because he is a Sire. Instead, the power of a Sire, and the stereotypes that have formed surrounding him, is more akin to the human hypnotist. They do not hold absolute power over another Vampirica, nor any human. They can command another being, living or undead, and they can rarely also move inanimate objects, but their control is limited to those which mutually agree on their power. Which is to say, if you believe you are not susceptible to the power of a Sire, then you will not be.
Of course, the power of a Sire is more complex, as the understanding of human psychology is limited, and much less is known about Vampirica psychology. Often, saying you do not abide by their power is not enough. One much firmly believe he is not susceptible, in his mind and heart, or a Sire may already have taken control of him. This is not to say that the Sire is a nefarious type of Vampirica, one to be feared or destroyed. It is simply to say that, regardless of the Vampirica’s constitution and personality, he may be controlling those that believe themselves to be his subordinates, even unwittingly.
The nature of the Sire is, however, to preside over something or someone. Upon turning, all Vampirica Sire have found their way into a position of power, however it may take shape, and become fiercely protective of that power. Allow a moment of contemplation: say a man is turned, and he is found to be a Sire. Where before he may have been fine working in a factory, making enough money to put food on the table for his family, he may suddenly demand a change in position in order to put him above his fellow worker. He may believe himself worthy of the promotion regardless of his work performance, and become increasingly agitated when he is refused the position. This is the nature of a Sire. To gain higher power is natural to him, and to be refused that power feels as though it goes against his very heart.
“I underestimated your obsession,” the duke says suddenly, and Frank looks up to see him smiling fondly at him. Only then does Frank realize his tea has gone cold, and the duke’s is gone altogether.
“I’m simply fascinated by your findings,” Frank says, holding the book open toward him. “You wrote all of this? Did all this research?”
“I’ve been alive a very long time, and have been blessed with the chance to help a great deal of vampires in my life,” the duke says. “Would you like me to call for more tea?”
“I don’t mind,” Frank says, already wanting to turn back to the book. “Perhaps a snack?”
“That sounds perfect,” the duke says, nodding in agreement as he stands. “I’ll be right back.”
Frank turns back to the book as he leaves, going to the front to look at each chapter. He sees an unbelievable amount of chapters, all titled after a different type or subtype of vampire. He flips to the chapter on one he’s not heard of yet, the Vampirica Asclepia.
Vampirica Asclepia, also known as Vampirica Medicina, or Vampirica Caducea, is a subtype of the Sire which is preoccupied with the desire to have power in the form of healing. It is an odd subtype to outline, but to put it simply, the power to heal is not possible with any type or subtype of Vampirica. All types of Vampirica consume life in one form or another, most often from the consumption of the blood of living beings. None have ever been recorded as having the ability to heal. As such, the Sire subtype Asclepia aims to gain power over healing. This puts the Asclepia in the odd situation of being the most psychologically interesting Vampirica subtype, while simultaneously being the hardest to understand.
As psychology is so often shrouded behind much misunderstanding and poor research, it is impossible to understand where this urge to heal comes from. I can only assume, as I have only ever observed one Asclepia in my time researching Vampirica, that the urge comes from the fact that healing is all but impossible for Vampirica. Something in the contrary nature of attempting the impossible is enticing for Asclepia, or so I must assume. There is not a better explanation at hand for me to pontificate on, so I must let this chapter be the very shortest, with only a final note to say that the one Asclepia I did know got along very well with other Vampirica Sire, which is notably strange. Vampirica Sire often do not get along with one another, such is the nature of those in power comparing their power to another’s, therefore aggravating their nature to be above.
The kind face of the doctor fills Frank’s mind as he reads, and he wonders if that Mr. Way is also a vampire, and if he is if he might be an Asclepia, perhaps the very one the duke writes about here. He supposes it would make sense, if he works to find a better way for humans to understand vampires in the Royal London Hospital while also soothing his urge to heal.
The duke returns with Miss Nestor and her cart of trays, this time with snacks piled high on the very top level.
“I don’t know your personal tastes, but I had some sweets and sandwiches made,” the duke says, sitting across from him again.
“I’m not picky,” Frank says, thanking Miss Nestor as she hands him a small plate of sandwich halves. When they have an impressive spread of snacks and fresh tea, the pot left for them, Miss Nestor leaves, and Frank wonders aloud, “How is it we’re able to eat regular food?”
The duke tosses a small chocolate into his mouth as Frank asks his question, so he has to wait until he can answer. “Vampires have functioning organs, but think of the way humans can get sick when they don’t eat enough meat or vegetables.”
Frank considers this. “So, our bodies just need the blood more?”
“Exactly,” the duke says with a wide smile. “You’re more clever than you seem.”
Frank frowns and the duke laughs.
“Apologies, I didn’t meant to say you seem simple.”
“I don’t think I could be simple, with all the reading I’ve done in my life,” Frank says, still stinging from the comment. Does he not come off as clever or sharp?
“All I meant by it was that you understood rather quickly what I was explaining,” the duke reassures. “Often, the question of how vampires can eat normal food comes up because of the preconceived notion that we cannot stomach the stuff, or that we somehow are repulsed by the food we grew up eating. You were quick to understand that it is far more simple a concept than that.”
Frank sips his tea.
“You come off as very sharp,” the duke says suddenly, looking right at him. “I didn’t mean to bruise your ego. You are quiet, but your eyes are always assessing, watching and considering. You come off as someone intent to learn, and learning must be done by listening. If I offended you, I sincerely apologize.”
Sighing, Frank sets his cup down. “It’s alright. I just… Used to hear that a lot as a child. The hospital staff were usually very surprised when I knew what they were talking about when discussing my health problems. I used to tell them that if they didn’t want curious children reading their medial journals, they ought to lock them up.”
The duke chuckles.
“Many assumed I was simple because I was quiet, but you’re right. I’ve always been someone who listens first. I prefer to hear what someone says, and therefore assess what that says about them, before engaging in a conversation.”
“That’s quite a scientific way to approach life,” the duke says thoughtfully. “I admire that kind of thing.”
Frank smiles into his teacup.
After consuming as much knowledge as he possibly could, as well as consuming as much cake as he was given, Frank and the duke went for a walk through the halls to continue helping Frank familiarize himself with the castle.
“I know it’s massive and complicated,” the duke says. “I promise it gets easier to find your way around. It helps to get lost sometimes, because it can be the only way your brain begins to finally make a note of what hallway leads where.”
Frank nods absently, still ruminating on the idea that Green vampires (Vampirica Grene) can choose to either consume life from the blood of humans or from the sap of trees. The concept is so bizarre that he silently hopes there is a Green vampire staying in the castle that he might get to meet.
They walk into another hall, this one slightly older than the nicely painted, fireplace-filled hall they left. The duke stops in the doorway. “Oh, excuse my error, this is…”
Frank stares down the hall, too curious for his own good. He sees eyes, but feels no pull. The eyes shine in the darkness at the end of the hall, staring at him.
“Pardon our intrusion,” the duke says, somewhat tightly. “It’s so easy to get turned around.”
The figure, obscured entirely by darkness, says nothing, and the eyes slide their gaze away from Frank and then disappear into the dark with the rest of their body.
The duke relaxes slightly, though not fully until the doors are shut again. By way of explanation, he says, “Try your best to not get lost on this side of the castle. We house more than just vampires here.”
Frank doesn’t push the subject, simply because the duke looks like he doesn’t want to admit they almost did something dangerous for fear of scaring Frank off.
Chapter 3: Getting to Know
Summary:
Whatever can be known must be learned, for the sake of those whose minds cannot bear the thought of not knowing.
Chapter Text
Frank spends days in the library. With tea and books, he feels at home in himself. The duke has said more than once that he will need to start practicing breaking Thrall soon, so he began by busying himself with learning about how one might go about that. From there, after reading an entire book on Thrall written by the duke, he has moved on to other books on specific vampire types and their subtypes.
On the day he is halfway through the book on Blind subtypes, the duke enters the library with Mr. Urie in tow behind him.
“Mr. Iero,” the duke says brightly. “How are you feeling this evening?”
The use of the words morning and evening are useless in the castle, since those are often interchangeable thanks to the magic surrounding them. But still, the duke always refers to the actual time outside their magical sunlight. Frank sits up and says, “Very well.”
“Wonderful.” The duke puts a polite hand on Mr. Uries shoulder. “I was hoping we might try and catch you feeling calm and relaxed. I wanted to try and help you practice breaking Thrall today.”
The idea fills Frank with anxiety, but he nods. He has to start eventually.
“Wonderful,” the duke says again. “Mr. Urie, please sit there and wait to remove your veil until I ask.”
Mr. Urie does as he’s told, sitting across from Frank and patiently awaiting his next instruction, while Frank puts a bookmark in the book he’d been reading, setting it aside.
“It’s important that you remember, first, that you are subordinate to no one,” the duke says, putting a reassuring hand on Frank’s shoulder. “No one man, living or undead, has any more power over another unless they are a king. Understand?”
Frank nods, but he feels unsure. There is a thread somewhere that doesn’t match up in what he says.
“Mr. Urie, please remove your veil.”
The moment he does, Frank’s world tilts toward him. He feels pulled, as if gravity itself is not actually centered on the Earth beneath him, but the man sitting across from him. And he wants so badly for him to speak, to tell him something, give him an order that he might obey, that he might feel calmed by the knowing of his ability to carry out such a task.
“Pour your tea on your lap,” Mr. Urie says firmly, and Frank’s hand is already on his teacup.
But the tea is piping hot, freshly brewed, and Frank’s hand stutters in the air. It would be so painful, obviously for anyone, but hot tea for a vampire is even hotter than for a human. It would burn so quickly, cause such damage that the command grates against Frank’s sense of self-preservation.
“Pour it on your hand,” Mr. Urie offers instead, but still Frank feels friction in his mind.
The image of his arm bubbling and burnt conflicts with the need to obey. There must be a reason, he argues with himself, there must be a reason Mr. Urie has told him to do this. It will be fine as long as he listens, as long as he does as he’s told.
But no, another part of him argues. The book on Thrall, the chapter on breaking through a hold, it talks of rationale being key. If a task seems irrational, investigate it further. Why would Mr. Urie tell him to pour out his tea on himself? That would not do anything productive, it seems only to be to cause harm. And Frank does not want to cause harm.
But it’s only to himself, he reasons. It wouldn’t be harm to someone else, only to him.
And yet, why still would Mr. Urie want to cause him harm?
Does it matter?
It must!
It feels like slipping down a muddy slope. Hot tea scalds his left hand and sends his mind snapping back to itself. He shouts and stands, his skin sizzling, the books nearby stained at the edges, and both the duke and Mr. Urie exclaim in surprise.
Through the chaos of the duke calling for someone to bring ice, Frank understands now how difficult his life is going to be going forward. If someone like Mr. Urie can command him so easily, without Frank even knowing him, then how on earth is he supposed to trust himself outside these castle walls?
Frank spends the rest of the day in bed with his books in one hand, and his other in a small metal tub of ice. According to the book he’s reading right now, vampires have the ability to heal rather quickly at low temperatures. A burn like this might lose a human their hand, but to a vampire it would take several days to heal. The duke even promised it wouldn’t leave a scar of any kind.
Speaking of the duke, he has spent the last hour speaking to each vampire resident of the castle to explain the outcome of their first Thrall breaking test. It would embarrass Frank if not for the increasingly scientific view he is forming of his new kind.
A light knock at the door brings his thoughts back. “Come in.”
The duke steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “Feeling alright?”
“A bit cold, but alright otherwise,” Frank says, eyeing the tub of ice.
The duke sighs, walking tentatively to his side. “I apologize for ruining your evening. But I have to commend you for resisting for so long.”
Frank looks up at him. “Was it especially long?”
“It was,” the duke says with an appreciative nod. “Most often, Thrall new to resisting their nature will do anything they’re told, no question or hesitation. Mr. Urie himself took several months to reach the level of resistance you showed today.”
Frank’s eyebrows shoot up.
“It’s different for everyone. Sometimes it is easy, sometimes it is extremely difficult.”
Looking back at his tub of ice, Frank wonders miserably how on earth this could be seen as easy. “It was very… strange.”
“I can’t even imagine,” the duke says, turning to look politely away. He won’t ask what it was like, but Frank feels the need to share for reasons of hopefully helping them shorten this process.
“It was as if I was conversing with myself,” Frank says, folding the corner of the page he was reading and closing his book. “Arguing. One part of me wanted to obey, was ready to simply do as I was told. But another part was trying to figure out why Mr. Urie would ask something like that.”
The duke is nodding. “That sounds very much like what I’ve heard from other Thrall.”
“I’m sure it does, I read the entire book on Thrall, which you obviously wrote,” Frank says with a halfhearted laugh. “But then, it was like I slipped on something and I just-…”
He looks at his burned hand, and the duke sighs.
“It can be very hard to keep a steady footing in one’s mind,” the duke says. “It’s something that makes me wish that humans were quicker to develop their knowledge of psychology. So little is known about humans, and even less is known about vampires.”
Frank sits quietly, contemplatively, watching his skin turn slowly blue in the ice. “You said you house more than just vampires here.”
The duke starts, then stands a little taller. “Yes.”
“What other supernatural creatures- or beings, should I say?”
Before speaking, the duke takes a deep breath, as if steadying himself. “We house all manner of supernatural beings, so long as they wish to be reentered into normal society.”
Frank waits for him to continue. The duke shifts uncomfortably.
“Werewolves, sylphs, nymphs,” he says, then makes a face. “And one banshee.”
“Ah,” Frank says, thinking back to the screaming woman they’d heard. “Banshee.”
“She becomes more active in the winter,” the duke explains. “The screaming is for her own benefit, her own amusement you might say.”
Ignoring that nothing about screaming is amusing to him, he nods.
“Her name is Kristen, and she’s been here so long she’s lost sight of her family name, so you should refer to her as Miss Kristen.”
New questions fill Frank’s mind, but he nods again to be polite.
“The man we ran into the other day, he is a werewolf,” the duke says, reaching out toward the tub of ice.
Frank pulls his numb hand from it and passes him the tub.
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed, and that night was a full moon,” the duke says with a grimace. “I still feel terrible for that…”
Knowing nothing about how to be courteous to a werewolf, Frank says nothing.
“Anyway, a great many of our residents are hibernating right now.” The duke puts the tub of ice on the rolling tray for Miss Nestor to remove later. “So many of them are elemental, and werewolves are much less active in winter as well. You likely won’t see any of our elemental residents until the spring when the frost finally melts.”
“I look forward to it,” Frank says earnestly. He wishes he could meet them all, learn everyone’s names and faces properly. But first, he remembers, he needs to become adept at refusing his nature. At breaking the Thrall.
After three days of regular icing, Frank’s hand looks and feels right as rain once more. Every so often, he flexes his fingers to remind himself that he can. And since he can, he uses them to read more and more about the different types of vampires. He hopes he gets to meet more and more of them, because every new type and subtype fills him with an intense feeling of intrigue. What are they like? What more could he learn about them? How many more are there out there, waiting to be discovered?
On yet another day where Frank is feeding his desire for knowledge, the duke visits with Mr. Toro, now dressed in gray and green, with a green lace veil to match.
“Good evening,” the duke says, identically to when he showed up with Mr. Urie, and Frank immediately knows what they’re about to do. He marks his spot in his book and sets it down. “How are you feeling?”
“Very good,” Frank says as Mr. Toro sits across from him. “Are we doing another test?”
The duke nods. “If you’re ready, I’d like to see how you do.”
The memory of pouring hot tea on himself has kept him from drinking it until today, which he tries not to chastise himself over. He eyes the cup on the table. “I’m ready.”
Mr. Toro removes his veil, and Frank is immediately distracted by his eyes. Not in a Thrall sense, but in the sense that he had never seen someone’s eyes look so interesting before. They are brown, but with stripes of amber gold, not unlike a stone he can’t remember the name of. Not a gemstone, another kind that looks like it shimmers from within.
But then, creeping into his brain like there’s a water leak somewhere, he feels the Thrall blanket him. He tries to focus on Mr. Toro’s eyes, but his mind is full of thoughts of obey.
Mr. Toro lifts a small buttering knife from the table, holding it out to him. “Take this.”
Frank cannot resist such a simple request. He takes it, the cold silver against his fingers.
Mr. Toro glances at the duke, who nods for him to continue. Mr. Toro looks conflicted a moment, and Frank feels the Thrall waver, like he knows neither of them want the next thing to happen. But then his face snaps to cold authority, and Frank accepts his future as fact. “Stab yourself in the eye.”
Millimeters from his eye, Frank stops himself, breathing fast. He’s terrified, terrified because he would, he wants to, or doesn’t want to, but will, because he must, but the command is so horrible he can’t imagine vampires heal from stab wounds must faster, much less the reality of puncturing his eye like this would cause so many other problems-
“Cut your wrist instead,” Mr. Toro says then, sensing his terrible struggle, to the chagrin of the duke.
This command is easier, because there will be no blood, no issue with doing this, no real harm if you really think about it-
“Mr. Toro,” the duke says in warning.
“I don’t want him to hurt himself,” Mr. Toro says, and then Frank is let free of the command, with great relief.
“The point is to push against his sense of preservation,” the duke reminds him harshly. “He has broken my hold, which means I don’t want to put him through that again if he can help it. We all must do this to help him, in the end.”
Mr. Toro frowns, looking warily back toward the knife in Frank’s hand. “Put the knife down.”
It clatters to the table.
“Mr. Toro-” the duke starts again, but the other man ignores him.
“Rip the pages from that book,” he commands, and Frank starts.
“No,” he says immediately, feeling the Thrall shatter like thin glass. The idea of destroying himself is hard to deal with, but the idea of destroying knowledge is so many steps too far. “Absolutely not, are you insane?”
The duke stares in shock at him, and Mr. Toro smiles.
Frank realizes he’s free, realizes he doesn’t feel the need to listen to Mr. Toro anymore, the need to obey, and smiles as well.
They are in the Blue Room later that evening, enjoying celebratory tea, when they are interrupted by Mr. Urie barging into the room, veil haphazardly held over his face.
“The water is cold,” he bemoans, sounding almost like a child.
“It is winter,” the duke responds. From the way he says it, Frank assumes this is a regular argument. He wonders if Mr. Urie stays in the castle often, or if it is simply an old argument coming back to haunt them with his new reason for staying.
“Which is precisely the season for warm baths!”
“Do you know how dangerous it is for you to take warm baths?” the duke says incredulously. “The cold hardly bothers—”
He seems to realize he is arguing in front of Frank and Mr. Toro then, and sighs. “Mr. Urie, please, just boil some water or-”
“I will leave my home, I will leave my belongings,” Mr. Urie says angrily. “But I will not be forced to boil my own bathwater!”
The duke lets out a long-suffering sigh.
Just then, Miss Nestor runs in behind him, holding her veil in front of her eyes. “Mr. Urie, please do not enter a room without knocking first!”
“Miss Nestor, please boil Mr. Urie some water for his bath,” the duke says tiredly.
“But-!” She looked between him and Mr. Urie. Well, moves her head between them. She keeps her veil securely over her eyes.
“Just make sure the water isn’t too hot,” the duke says, then glares at Mr. Urie. “Are you happy now?”
“I would be happier if you all weren’t so…” He trails off before scoffing and leaving the room in a huff, much like he entered it.
Once he’s gone, the duke settles back into his chair and lets out another deep sigh. “Than man, I swear…”
Frank is almost alright letting their group fall back into silence, but pauses sipping his tea as a question bubbles up in his chest. “Mr. Toro told me that Mr. Urie is a Thrall, like I am.”
Mr. Toro sips his tea innocently as the duke shoots him an accusatory look.
“I was unaware that was a secret,” Frank says quickly.
“It’s not,” the duke says through yet another sigh. “I forgot, Mr. Toro likes to gossip.”
“Is it really gossip if it was brought up by Brendon’s loud entrance?” Mr. Toro asks rhetorically.
“Mr. Urie is a Thrall, yes.”
“And Thrall can command Thrall?” Frank says thoughtfully, trying to remember what he’d read about Thrall in all the books he’d been reading. He couldn’t quite place the information as something he’d found in them.
“Yes,” the duke says. “But only Thrall that are back in control of themselves. If Mr. Urie were still undergoing rehabilitation, he wouldn’t be able to place a hold on anyone.”
“Interesting,” Frank murmurs, taking a sip of his tea and thinking on the complex nature of control, power, and authority on vampires.
Rereading the book on Thrall, Frank pays closer attention to the subtypes.
Elemental Thrall
These Thrall are not only drawn to nature, they are often only able to refuse a Vampirica’s hold when in or around nature. Lukewarm water, the leaves of a tree, a bundle of flowers — all these can be used to bolster an Elemental Thrall’s own power against the hold of another Vampirica.
He flips through to the index, scanning until he finds something that catches his attention; Vampirica Thrall, Intellectual Subtype.
It’s so on the nose, he laughs out loud in his empty bedroom. He turns to the chapter.
Intellectual Thrall
By far the most interesting, and rare, are the Intellectual Thrall, also known as Vampirica Academia. They are seekers of information, of knowledge, and of knowing. Most often, these Thrall actually are dependent on the person’s personality before turning. Without exception, every single Intellectual Thrall I have had the chance of meeting has been some type of intellectual or academic before being turned. Be it a child prone to reading, a lifelong student, a professor, or simply someone incapable of leaving well enough alone.
What makes them even more interesting, though, is their inability to refuse a command — unless the commands have to do with the destruction, redaction, or obfuscation of knowledge and information. There is some psychological piece that eludes me on this topic, but it seems that this kind of command for an Intellectual Thrall can instantly sever the hold a Vampirica has on the Thrall, no matter the level of closeness to the commanding Vampirica.
As if Frank has lived here for years, he is flying from his bed, barely taking the time to throw on a night jacket, and is running down the hall. Halfway there, or perhaps just after a while, he realizes he has no idea where the duke sleeps. And what a ridiculous notion, to go wake the duke from his slumber to show him this passage.
But it’s all so exciting. Learning exactly what he is, exactly why he broke so easily through Mr. Toro’s hold, why precisely he has been so engrossed with the books in the duke’s library — the fact of knowing has filled him with elation.
“Mr. Iero?” a voice says from behind him, and he whirls around with a shout to find Mr. Way there, candle in hand, staring at him from what looks to be the door of his rooms. He is dressed in all black bedclothes and is not wearing his veil. “Are you alright?”
Frank waits a moment to see if he feels a hold, then lets out a breath when nothing happens. “I apologize. I just… I realized what subtype I am.”
Mr. Way raises an eyebrow.
Frank shoves the book toward him. “Look! Doesn’t this sound exactly like me?”
Mr. Way’s eyes scan the page, then he looks impressed. “I didn’t even know that was a subtype. Wow. Congratulations.”
Mr. Way is clearly tired, Frank clearly woke him, yet he appreciates that he took the time to speak with him about it at all. Sharing this knowledge feels almost as good as knowing it.
“Were you running through the hall for a reason?” Mr. Way asks.
“Oh, well…” Frank looks around. “I was going to go tell the duke, but then I realized I don’t know where he, um, is.”
Mr. Way nods, like this is all very normal to him. He points to the door Frank just passed, next to to his own rooms. “He lives there, actually.”
“Oh.” Frank stares at the entirely too normal-looking doors. “I thought he would have rooms somewhere else for some reason.”
“He prefers to put himself on our level,” Mr. Way says.
Frank frowns. “But isn’t he a…?”
“A Sire? Tell me about it,” Mr. Way says with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know. I haven’t bothered to look up their subtypes, maybe he’s the kind that likes to look humble.”
Frank makes a mental note to look up the Sire subtypes one more time.
“I don’t think he would be mad that you would wake him for this,” Mr. Way says, nudging him to do it, and Frank wonders if he just likes annoying the duke.
“It’s alright, I should have better control of myself,” Frank says, then realizes that’s the whole reason he’s here in the first place and laughs.
Mr. Way laughs too. “Well, you have full control over whether or not you wake him to tell him about your being an intellectual.”
They say goodnight to one another, and after Mr. Way returns to his rooms, Frank stares at the duke’s doors. It would be quite disruptive to wake him up in the middle of the night- or day, or something. But the knowing.
In the end, he decides to exercise some self control and go back to sleep. He will have plenty of time to tell the duke about it tomorrow, and maybe he can even read up on Sire subtypes before he falls asleep.
The next morning, evening, whatever, Frank joins Mr. Toro and Mr. Urie in the Blue Room for breakfast. Or, after-breakfast teacakes. And tea.
“Intellectual,” Mr. Urie says with a scoff, making his veil float out from his face. He uses the motion of it to tip his teacup back for a quick sip. “What an odd subtype.”
“It’s fascinating,” Frank insists emphatically.
“To you,” Mr. Urie says, somewhat uncomfortable.
“What subtype are you?” Frank asks, probably against his better judgement, but he is curious, and now he has an excuse to be.
Mr. Urie quickly shoves a bite of his teacake in his mouth to avoid answering.
Frank almost whines over him hiding it from him, but their conversation halts when the duke enters the room. On his own social instinct, Frank stands up, then sits down, confused.
“Good evening,” the duke says. “A bit early to be having a snack, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Urie says with a half-full mouth.
“Well, you wouldn’t,” the duke says shortly. Then he smiles at Frank. “How are you feeling?”
“Am I going to do a test already?” Frank asks immediately, wanting to finish his snack.
“I’m just wondering how you’re feeling,” the duke insists.
“I’m well,” he says. He remembers that he fell asleep before he could look up the other Sire subtypes and wishes there was a casual way to bring it up in conversation.
“Good.” The duke come over to join them, sitting in one of the chairs across from Mr. Toro and Mr. Urie, and next to Frank. “What are we eating?”
“Teacakes,” Mr. Toro says. “With Earl Grey tea.”
“My favorite.”
Frank sits back quietly while the other three begin chatting about the castle and the work that’s needed to be done in certain areas, damage from age and from the heavy snow this winter. Frank wonders how the garden will survive, voices this concern, and the duke assures him that the elementals living there will keep it alive through the winter as they always do.
When the conversation lulls, just like always, a question finds its way out of Frank’s mouth, “What kind of vampire is Mr. Way?”
The duke turns to look at him in surprise, and Mr. Toro and Mr. Urie pause to glance at one another.
“That is something he prefers to tell people,” the duke says carefully.
“You could tell him the main type,” Mr. Toro says for him, a gentle nudge, eyeing him meaningfully. He must understand, then, that the idea of not getting an answer to his question will only make it harder not to think about.
“I don’t feel comfortable-” the duke starts, and Mr. Urie interrupts.
“But the main type isn’t giving much away, right?” he says lightly, or in a way that’s meant to be light, leaning on the armrest of his chair.
The duke looks between the two men, then glances at Frank. “What is going on?”
“He’s figured out his subtype,” Mr. Toro says immediately, just as Mr. Urie says, “He’s an Intellectual.”
Frank can almost see the pieces slotting together to make a complete puzzle in the duke’s mind, as he looks to Frank with renewed understanding. A few emotions show on his face before he smiles, and says, “That makes so much sense. Refresh my memory on that subtype?”
Frank nods and politely begins to recite the paragraphs, ignoring the way he skirted around the question, and definitely not letting the unanswered nature of it fester in his gut.
Chapter 4: Forget Me Not
Summary:
Tests upon tests, all of them passed somehow, and yet none of them fill the heart's void. What fits within it? Only through remembrance can the missing piece be known...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
What had originally been a joyous occasion turned into the newest reason Frank had wished he’d kept his mouth shut. The duke, now knowing Frank’s strengths, decided it was then time to move their tests out of the library, where Frank felt most comfortable.
They are sat in the covered courtyard in the castle, where it is still too cold for plants to live, but is at least covered from the snow above them through the glass ceiling. Frank is sitting in a borrowed dining chair, across from a new vampire to combat with this time. And he feels very strange about knowing he is about to be commanded by a woman.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the duke says from her side.
Miss Nestor raises her veil, and she is quite easily the most beautiful woman Frank has ever seen. Her features are delicate and bold at the same time, and her dark eyes seem to speak directly to him. He isn’t sure if that’s the Thrall’s hold, or something else, but he feels a strange sense of familiarity in the feeling itself.
But then, it’s unmistakeable, the Thrall washes in like the tide, and Frank feels content to hear her orders.
“Stand,” she says, her voice kind and soft, so he does. Who could say no to a voice like that? “Walk to the fountain.”
The multi-level fountain in the center of the courtyard is large and burbles quietly, creating a beautiful sound to accompany the dead plants around it. It’s a perfectly fine fountain, easy to walk up to, nice to be next to, he isn’t complaining.
“Stick your head in the water, and do not come back up,” she orders.
There is no reason not to. He loves the sound of her voice, and thinks it might be sad to never hear it again, but again, who could resist her voice? He likes water anyway, the taste of it is calming, so he does. It’s freezing cold, even to his vampire skin, but it’s fine. It’s always fine.
Until he feels like he can’t breathe. He didn’t think vampires needed to, but he’s realizing that they do. Absolutely they need to breathe. And he cannot. And he’s scared now, because he wants to come up but it feels as though the Thrall has put a necklace of iron across him and he cannot come up for anything, he is going to suffocate and drown himself without being able to-
Without being able to know what kind of vampire Mr. Way is. Without being able to find out what subtype of Sire the duke is. Without finding out why he cannot stop thinking of the doctor.
And he pulls himself up, because he cannot be forced not to know. The duke is congratulating him as he gasps for air, Miss Nestor is politely clapping, and Frank is only thinking of the doctor. He remembers something, something about his eyes, his hold—
“There you are,” the doctor says, peering down at him happily.
Frank stares and stares. He feels so comfortable. He feels warm and safe. The doctor is safe. He is safe.
“Are you awake in there?” the doctor asks, somewhat playfully.
Frank nods, because his throat is sore for some reason. Too sore to speak.
“Very good.” The doctor helps him sit up. He is in the same office he remembers foggily trying to eat the doctor in earlier. “How are you feeling?”
Frank points to his throat, because he can’t speak and it burns, and the doctor tuts.
“My mind really must be going,” he says, turning to his desk on his rolling stool. “I forgot about the blood! What kind of doctor for vampires forgets about the blood?”
Before Frank can protest, the doctor is handing him a wide bowl of dark red liquid. It reminds him too much of the flashes of violence, the screams of the doctors and nurses.
“Drink,” the doctor says gently, and the word swims through Frank’s mind, curling around his brain and settling behind his eyes, and he does.
It cools his throat, makes the soreness pass, and turns his stomach warm all at once. When he is done, the doctor’s gaze is on him and he feels small.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes,” Frank says, his voice still somewhat rough. He wonders how long he’s been sleeping.
The doctor nods and take the bowl back to his desk, before returning to his side. And his eyes, Frank can’t stop looking at his eyes.
“You have beautiful eyes,” Frank says despite himself, and the doctor smiles, and that smile fills Frank with calmness and satisfaction.
“Thank you. Your eyes are beautiful as well.”
Heat finds his face.
“You should rest,” the doctor says, before making a startled noise as Frank falls back against his pillows, asleep at the mere suggestion of a command.
He wakes staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. His throat feels sore from almost drowning himself and he is thinking of the connection between Miss Nestor’s beautiful voice and the doctor’s beautiful eyes when someone knocks on his door.
“Come in.” His voice sounds awful.
“Good Lord, what did they do to you?” Mr. Way asks, shouldering into the room with a tray of bread and cheese.
“Tried to drown me,” he says, sitting up.
Mr. Way grimaces. “Miss Nestor is more cruel than she looks.”
Frank shakes his head, but he’s not sure why. He still doesn’t believe she would do that on purpose. He takes the tray gratefully. “Thank you.”
“Tests like these can get exhausting,” Mr. Way says, sitting in one of the chairs in front of Frank’s fireplace.
An opening, Frank thinks with Intellectual glee. “Have you done tests like these before?”
And why did anyone make a big deal about it before? Mr. Way answers immediately; “Not a Thrall’s tests, but yes. I’m a Blue vampire.”
Frank immediately searches his mind for a description.
“It’s like a Green vampire, but with water,” he says, sounding bored.
“The duke said you didn’t like when other people talk about what you are,” Frank blurts, because he can.
Mr. Way laughs, and Frank gets a proper look at the way his fangs look extra long. “It’s because it’s quite boring and somewhat embarrassing. Nothing interesting, I’m afraid.”
“I find everything interesting,” Frank says, and means it.
“I know you do,” Mr. Way teases. “Eat your food, you need the strength.”
He does as he’s told, only because he is hungry and would rather not drink blood. Eventually, he joins Mr. Way by the fire, tray in his lap, ignoring the way he has seemingly completely thrown out his observance of manners.
When he’s almost done with his bread and cheeses, he makes a face. “If you know what type of vampire you are, and you get along well with others, why are you still here?”
Mr. Way eyes him. “I work for the duke, a sort of research partner I suppose.”
Frank is keen to leave it at that.
“My brother works for him too,” Mr. Way goes on, watching Frank’s reaction. There is no way he misses the way Frank’s entire body seems to want to turn toward him then. “I wish I could tell you more about him.”
“I admit, my Intellectual tendencies are getting the best of me,” Frank says, shoving bread in his mouth and wondering why he can’t know that the doctor is Mr. Way’s brother, why he can’t know what he already guessed.
“It’s not that,” Mr. Way says, giving the fire a complicated expression. “It’s something else entirely…”
And oh how he hates sentences like that. Because that is a clear sign that there is something more to it all, something under the already-covered surface, something nobody is going to tell him until something else happens. And the only thing that needs to happen regarding him is learning to snap out of the holds faster, so he chews on his bread and smears cheese over his next bite and is filled with the determination to do just that.
“Put your hand in the fire,” Miss Ballato says, so bored that Frank barely feels her hold on him.
“Lindsey, please,” the duke says for a third time. “I need you to take this seriously.”
“I am very serious,” she says flatly.
“He needs to learn, and we have to help him,” the duke presses. “Take this seriously.”
She sighs, her bored face not looking quite at him. She is pale and has striking black hair, but her eyes are as white as her veil that now sits on her white dress skirt. “Do a flip or something.”
Frank frowns at her. The duke groans.
“I’m very busy,” she says for a fifth time, glaring in the general direction of the duke.
“So am I,” the duke growls. “Busy with the rehabilitation of every single supernatural being in this castle. Now take this seriously.”
With such a reverberating command, Frank feels it secondhand as Lindsey sits up straight, her spine rigid, responding not to her boss’s order, but to her master’s command.
“Stick your hand in the fire,” she demands of Frank, and he is in front of the fire before the fear of such a request hits him.
He grabs his right hand with his left, terrified to lose the use of his dominant hand for any amount of time.
“Do it,” she hisses, impatient, and Frank thinks he would rather suffer fire than her wrath.
But fire, oh fire, fire is the worst, most dangerous thing for vampires, isn’t it? They burn so easily, the tea was proof enough of that. Imagine, and Frank does, the damage putting his hand directly into fire would cause. Blistering wounds, melting flesh, the image fills his head and makes him gag.
“Do it.” Her voice is harsh and unfeeling. She doesn’t care if he dies from this. She doesn’t see a point in arguing it. He wishes she did.
But then, he thinks of the reality of not having his dominant hand. He would struggle with reading, with turning pages and holding his place, and drinking tea while reading, and that is just enough of a wedge in the command for him to get his foot in the door, to shove through it, and push himself away from the fireplace in Miss Ballato’s white sitting room.
He’s breathing hard, still imagining the horrible pain he would’ve been in, when the duke slaps his shoulder appraisingly. Miss Ballato seems indifferent, though she claps her hands politely.
All the while, Frank is thinking of fire, and the last time he was so close to it.
“No!”
The doctor’s shout causes Frank’s entire body to freeze. He isn’t sure what the command is, but he knows no means stop, so he stops everything, even his breathing.
Frank had been sitting at the doctor’s desk, writing a letter to his parents to tell them he was going to be sick for a while, as the doctor had told him to, when he had reached for the wax seal to hold over the fire of a candle. Doing so had caused the doctor’s outburst, so Frank is sure he should never get near another candle again.
The doctor comes to his side fast, taking the wax seal from him and sealing the letter himself before crouching by Frank’s side in the chair and taking his hand, looking very serious. “You must be careful around fire, it is very dangerous for you.”
Frank is still not breathing, but he nods.
“Are you alright?”
Superseding the command to stop, Frank answers with a gasping breath, “Yes.”
“Were you holding your breath?” the doctor asks, concerned.
“You told me to stop.” Frank is confused.
“No I didn’t,” the doctor says, searching his face. “How odd…”
Anxiety of doing something wrong fills him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.” The doctor guides him back to his hospital bed on the other side of the room, pulling his stool over to sit by him. “Tell me, how are you feeling?”
“Tired, confused, like I’m not myself,” Frank says in a tumble.
The doctor hums, nodding. “And how do you feel about me?”
Something spreads through Frank’s chest, staring into the doctor’s eyes and feeling that safety. Nothing is dangerous to tell him, he thinks with absolute certainty. “I love you.”
This was not what the doctor expected to hear. This is evidenced by the way his eyes bulge and his leg sends him sliding away from Frank. This reaction makes Frank feel like he is foolish and simple.
Love. Frank stares at the frozen garden outside the glass of the back windows and wonders what on earth he knows about love. And, for that matter, why these memories keep coming back to him in this way. It’s almost as if breaking the Thrall has some kind of side-effect regarding his memory. And maybe it does, now that he thinks about it, because isn’t that what would contort his memory the most? Being under another vampire’s hold?
“Mr. Iero?” the duke’s surprised voice brings him out of his thoughts. He turns to see the duke standing at the end of the hall, hands full of papers. “Are you alright?”
“What affect does a vampire’s hold have on the mind of Thrall?” Frank asks instead of answering.
The duke frowns, his brow furrowing. “In what way do you mean?”
“Memory,” Frank says after a pause.
The duke pauses too, his mouth setting into a line. “Have you remembered something?”
Oddly, Frank feels protective over his memories now. He understands the urge to hide information suddenly. And that scares him. “I have. The doctor in London…”
The duke seems genuinely surprised at this. “Really? That’s peculiar. He is usually very thorough to wipe the memory of all his patients before sending them to us, especially Thrall.”
“Why especially Thrall?”
“In case of any lingering commands,” the duke explains instantly.
“So he is the Asclepia,” Frank says absently, looking back out at the gardens.
The duke pauses once again before needlessly answering him. “Yes. He is. What have you remembered?”
The duke comes to stand at his side, his concern and confusion coming off him in waves, and Frank almost doesn’t want to answer. “He is very kindhearted, and careful, and eccentric.”
Frank’s description makes the duke laugh in surprise.
“He is somewhat tall, he has brown hair, and he is gentle,” Frank continues, feeling his hand shake where it is grasping his opposite elbow. “And he is not here.”
“No, he is not,” the duke says quietly. He seems to hear what is lying under the surface of Frank’s words. “You wish he was?”
“I’m very tired,” Frank says suddenly, feeling it in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and rambling, my lord, I should retire.”
Before the duke can respond or chide him for the formality, Frank makes his way quickly back to his room to sleep. And as he lays down, he hopes to dream of the doctor.
Knowing he wants to know what happens next, his dream is a memory of moments after the words leave his mouth.
“You love me?” the doctor says, eyes still wide, body still far from Frank’s.
“I’ve said something wrong,” Frank observes.
“No, no,” the doctor says quickly, holding out his hands. “I- I’m just trying to help you sort your thoughts. You feel tired and confused, not like yourself, and you love me?”
Frank nods hesitantly.
“Is this feeling…” The doctor can’t quite figure out his words. “Is it yours?”
Frank frowns in confusion.
The doctor sighs, trying to find the right words. “I didn’t do this, did I?”
Frank hesitantly shakes his head. Because who determines how love works?
The doctor looks at the time, seemingly realizing something terrible based on his expression, and turns his sad eyes to Frank once more. “I’m sorry. We don’t have time anymore. Now that you’re awake, I need to clear your mind for travel.”
The idea scares him, not because his mind will be altered but because he fears forgetting the doctor and his love for him. “No.”
“I wish I had more time to talk with you-”
“So make time,” Frank demands, and he sees the command wash over the doctor, and suddenly he wonders who is in charge here.
The doctor stares in wonder at him. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” Frank nervously looks at the clock.
“You commanded me, you held me,” the doctor says, intrigued. “How-?”
“Please,” Frank says, not knowing what he means to plead for.
“You are fascinating,” the doctor says, rolling his chair to Frank’s side once more. “I wish you could stay longer, but you must go to a friend of mine to get back to yourself. You want that, don’t you?”
Of course he did, but he wanted the doctor’s company more. “Will you be there?”
“Not at first,” the doctor says carefully, placating Frank’s clear anxiety. “But once you reach a point of, let’s say, becoming more yourself, I will be called.”
“You can’t make me more myself?” Frank asks, putting himself in the doctor’s space, getting close to his face, his mouth, feeling the electric pull as he gets closer.
The doctor swallows. “No. I cannot.”
Frank is content to breathe his air, but the longer he is there, the less able to sit still the doctor is. So he pulls back to give him reprieve, and he swears the doctor follows him slightly before shaking his head clear.
“You will forget our time here,” the doctor says, his voice full of agonizingly final authority, and the room is already melting away. “Until, however, you begin to come back to yourself. And then, when I return, you being all yourself, we will meet again.”
Frank wakes in a fit, thrashing his sheets and blankets off, the fireplace out but his body feverish. The only thing that makes him feel better it sinking into a frigid bath. He decides then that Mr. Urie is insane, and that a freezing cold bath is always going to be better than overheating, because the relief of cooling down is so great he nearly falls asleep again.
As he dresses, he realizes that the terms of him remembering the doctor and his time with him have been fulfilled. They have to have been. He wouldn’t have remembered the last of it without it being true.
And that fills him with excitement. Because he feels that latent love for the doctor under his skin, he knows that’s what caused his fever, and he wants to feel that kind of heat again.
Notes:
Gerard's birthday double drop!
Thanks for reading!! <3
Chapter 5: On Control
Summary:
A weary mind is more easily bent to the whims of others, so long as those looking to control make up a good reason.
So, bolster your mind. Build yourself an impenetrable fortress and protect your thoughts and opinions from those that would use them against you. Remember to use good materials, as even the smallest of cracks can let in the miasma of uncertainty...
Chapter Text
He tells the duke he is ready for his final test, and the duke immediately dismisses the idea.
“No, you are not ready.”
“But-” Frank searches for a way to explain the situation, to convince the duke that he is actually ready.
But then the duke looks at him, and the Thrall takes hold immediately, and Frank thrashes in his mind, remembering the last time he was commanded by the duke to starve, and feels his mind freeze, as if being shoved into an iron box covered in ice.
“Stand,” the duke commands, and Frank is standing. “Lift your left hand.” Frank’s hand lifts. “Touch your nose with your left index finger.” Frank’s fingers are cold against his nose. “Go to the window.” The land outside is covered in snow. “Break the glass.” The window shatters easily. The glass is old and fragile. “Gather some glass in your hands.” The pieces are colder than his hands. They glitter like the snow. “Close your hands into fists.” The glass easily slides into his palms. There is no blood to speak of, but it hurts horribly.
And be it the shock of pain or the mercy of the duke, the Thrall breaks and Frank gasps from the pain.
“You are not ready,” the duke repeats.
“I apologize for Duke Von Stump’s outburst,” Miss Nestor says, confusing Frank as she bandages his hands. “He has had trouble reaching his associates in London lately, which has put him in a sour mood.”
“It’s alright,” Frank says, wondering why his hand must be bandaged. “He was right. I want to believe I’m ready to face whatever his final test is, but clearly I am not.”
Miss Nestor rests her hands on his, the bandages warming from her gloves. “Personally, I think you are very close. You just need a bit more practice.”
Frank sighs as she begins to pack up her first aid box. “What would you recommend I try?”
Miss Nestor closes the first aid box lightly, locking the latch and putting her hand on it, contemplating his question. “Often, the hardest commands to refuse, as I’ve observed, are the smallest. Do this, go there, eat this, say this. You must find a way out of those kinds of commands. The more you do the larger ones, the easier those get, but you haven’t begun to understand how to break the smaller ones.”
Frank thinks back to the way the doctor phrased his command. When Frank was beginning to come back to himself, that was when he would remember. And when he was fully himself, that was when the doctor would be able to come to the castle.
“Tell me about the Thrall you’ve broken so far,” Miss Nestor says, sitting on the edge of his bed next to him. He wishes he could see her veiled eyes.
He explains the feeling, the way he reasoned with himself regarding retaining his ability to still pursue information, or to preserve it. Miss Nestor listens intently, nodding thoughtfully every so often.
“I see. Then, you must do that for the smallest of commands as well. Find a reason why it would conflict with your knowledge, or your pursuit of it.” She smiles under her veil, her bright red lipstick shining in the light of his fireplace.
Then, Frank gets an idea. “Could we practice? Without the duke?”
Her smile vanishes. “His presence is necessary. Should something go wrong, he is there to keep you safe.”
“But if we’re only practicing small orders, it’s not dangerous, right?” he reasons. “Please? I need more practice than he gives me, I desperately want to progress past these blockages.”
“Patience is necessary,” she says, though he can tell by the twist in her mouth that she is considering it.
“Just once a day then,” he says. “Just one simple command that I can try to break. Please?”
She looks toward the doors, then back to his face. “Alright. But just because I admire you so much.”
His cheeks warm. “You admire me?”
“You’re the most interesting Thrall I’ve ever met,” she says, reaching to unpin her veil from her tied-back hair. “I admire your personality, your drive, your eagerness to learn. Intellectuals are rare.”
“So I’ve read,” he says, then is lost in her beautiful, dark eyes.
“Do you know what type I am?” she asks suddenly, her beautiful eyes narrowing.
“I’m not sure I’ve been told yet, no,” he says, somewhat slow, making him sound simple.
“I am a Vampirica Carmilla,” she says, her voice velvet soft against his ears. “My subtype is Radiant, which refers to my aura. It is practically irresistible to men.”
As she speaks, he watches her mouth form the words. She hasn’t held him yet, but she’s intoxicatingly distracting on her own.
“It may be a good thing you’ve asked me to be your practicing partner,” she says, removing her gloves. “Because it will be very hard to refuse.”
She drops on glove on the ground and Frank already wants to retrieve it for her before she even gives him a command.
“Could you pick that up for me?” she asks, caramel sweet and silk soft.
Frank is crouching over the glove, scooping it up as if it were made of glass. Then, he breaks through his own thoughts, frantically searching for a reason to refuse. She dropped her glove so deliberately, there must have been a reason.
So, he forces himself to think, ask her why.
“Why did you drop this?” he asks with much effort.
She raises her eyebrows, shocked already. “It was an accident.”
No it wasn’t, he thinks, and frowns. He watched her very clearly hold it out to drop it on the floor. Her actions do not match up with her words. And slowly, staring at her, he feels himself slip further from her grasp.
“I’m just playing a game,” she says then, giving him a sweet smile. Her pivot cradles him back in her mind’s lap, safe and warm. “I wanted to play a trick on you.”
A trick, he thinks with an inward laugh. Of course, she’s always playing tricks…
As he goes to hand her the glove, her pale palm waiting, he once again tries to find the logic in her words. Play a trick? With a glove? Dropping a glove just to ask him to pick it back up isn’t a trick, not the kind that would embarrass him or make him look foolish. A trick wouldn’t paint him to be chivalrous.
“Are you sure that’s why?” he asks, almost through his teeth. There is something so close to the front of his teeth that he can almost taste it.
“Would you believe me if I said that I dropped it so that you could pick it back up for me?” she counters gently. Her smile curves so softly, the red glistening like fresh blood.
“That’s a rather illogical reason,” he says absently, feeling his grip on the glove loosen.
“Does one have need to have a logical reason for everything?” she says, lifting her palm to touch his fingers still around the glove, and he is so close to just completing the command to free his mind of it.
“I suppose not,” he says, his fingers suddenly aching. “But it’s an odd request.”
“Perhaps the goal was to see you beneath me,” she says, her voice dropping low, and something about it scrapes across Frank’s mind like talons of ice.
His fingers tighten around the glove.
“Give it to me,” she says with authority.
“Why?” he asks immediately. It’s his only escape.
“Because it is my glove, and I want it back.”
Perfectly reasonable. But still, the facts don’t match up for why she would drop it so deliberately in the first place. He searches and searches in his mind, but he cannot find a way out of her hold. Her eyes are dark pools of mystery and her voice is velvet around his body and her commands are so easy, so simple, so reasonable. But there has to be a way out. There is always a way out.
“What is your glove made of?” he asks suddenly, his body jolting. He isn’t disobeying her, but he needs more information.
She looks at him curiously. “Silk and lace.”
“A silk and lace glove,” he repeats. “And you would drop such a valuable thing for what reason?”
As if watching him set up a chess board, she smiles and makes her move. “I wanted to see if you would pick it up.”
“And I have,” Frank says. He feels like this might be the key.
“And now I want it back,” she says, urging her hand forward. “Give it to me.”
Silk and lace. What does he know about silk and lace? Silk dirties easily, and lace is delicate. Not to mention that the lace is likely hand-made, if Miss Nestor’s expensive dresses are any indication. To drop such a valuable glove on the castle floors, despite there being a rug, would cause it to become dirty. And therefore, to truly be a chivalrous man to this kind, beautiful lady, he must not give it back until it is cleaned.
It feels like unraveling a very tight and complex knot. Slowly, he feels his chest loosen, his shoulders drop, and the hand holding the glove comes to rest against his chest. Her hold slips from him quickly and she starts, staring up at him with those beautiful wide eyes.
“I won’t,” he says. “Not until it’s properly cleaned.”
She breaks into a wide, almost maniacal smile and stands. “Mr. Iero!”
He breathes in, finding a smile for himself as she hugs him.
“That was incredible!”
He hugs her back, feeling relief flood him. He can do this, he tells himself, he can absolutely do this.
Frank learns that Radiant Carmilla are known for their ability to seduce and subdue. The more he reads, the more impressed he is with himself. Apparently, a Radiant Carmilla can easily take control of an entire village, of men and women alike, with just the sound of their voice. They don’t often even need to be seen if they don’t want to be. Likewise, their eyes have been known to instantly hypnotize and mesmerize. No matter the color, they will always appear the most beautiful anyone else has ever seen.
While doing this research, Frank is interrupted by the duke storming into the library, Miss Nestor close behind.
“Mr. Iero, what is this I’m hearing of you and Miss Nestor training privately?” he demands.
Frank snaps his book shut. “I want to prove that I’m ready.”
As the reality of his words sinks into the duke’s mind, he displays multiple emotions, including anger, guilt, and, several times, pride. Finally, he sighs, resting his hand over his eyes. “Mr. Iero, I know you want to—… I know you are eager to finish your rehabilitation, but-”
“Try right now,” Frank says, surprising even himself. Miss Nestor and the duke stare at him. “Go on. Let me try.”
The duke hesitates. “The combined strain of repeated sessions-”
Frank startles them by slamming his book onto the table, standing so fast that his chair squeals behind him. “Let me try.”
There is a strength to his words that he can see press against the duke’s mind. Both he and Miss Nestor get these horrified looks on their faces, and Frank is suddenly reminded of the will he imposed on the doctor. Small and weak, barely permeating the outer edges of their minds, but it is clear that he has just tried to grasp hold of them both.
“I have never in my life,” the duke says slowly, “met a Thrall that could… command.”
“I have been telling you, something is special about him,” Miss Nestor says in a hushed tone, still watching him from behind her veil.
“We will… This should be investigated further,” the duke says carefully, taking note of Frank’s still-pleading expression. “But alright. Let’s try.”
Excitement surges in Frank’s chest and he readies himself as best he can.
The duke’s kind gaze snaps to a razor sharp edge, and Frank feels as though the iron chains of the hospital are back around him. But as soon as he feels their cold, hard restraint, they turn warm and soft, like blankets warmed by a fire.
“Come here,” the duke commands, and it’s not something he can even begin to reason his way out of. Frank is by his side. The duke eyes him curiously. “Tell me all you remember about the doctor in London.”
The shattering is instantaneous. Frank utterly refuses, wholehearted and fiercely protective. He yearns to collect knowledge, but sharing it is a different story. Especially knowledge like that.
The duke stares at him. “How did you do that?”
Frank’s mouth is shut like a vice, his jaw clenching at the mere notion that the duke would have used his hold to force Frank to share knowledge about the doctor. He is about to go off on a rampage on the duke when Miss Nestor removes her veil and pulls him into her beautifully dark eyes.
“Frank, do you remember the doctor?” she asks kindly, soft and smooth.
“Of course I do,” he says, though he feels a bit of apprehension. Why would she need to know?
“Could you tell me about him?” she asks, gently taking his hand.
Carefully, Frank finds a way around her request. “Yes, I could.”
Her expression, light and calm, flinches slightly into annoyance. “Please, tell me about him.”
Find a question, he reminds himself. “What is it you wish to know?”
“What did he say to you while you were in his care?” she asks.
The question breaks her hold instantly, leaving her blinking in shock. The duke is watching them with renewed curiosity and confusion.
“I must see what I have written on- whatever just happened,” the duke says, moving to scan the shelves around them.
Frank blinks back at Miss Nestor. “Have I failed somehow?”
She shakes her head slightly. “No, not exactly.”
Thrall do not command.
The duke said this several times, muttering it to himself, while leafing through his tomes. Frank had found the whole situation exhausting, a blanket of tiredness falling over him, so he retied to his rooms to rest.
He is an Intellectual Thrall. So why is it that he could command the doctor? Why is it he could feel himself attempt to command the duke and Miss Nestor? And, given the time to practice, could he exert the same control over them as he had with the doctor?
The questions keep him from sleeping, so he pulls a book from underneath his pillows. It is the book on Sires. He opens it to the index and scans the subtypes. He thinks of the duke, his personality, his deep desire to help those in his care, and wonders why he isn’t also an Asclepia. But, Frank realizes, helping rehabilitate is not the same as healing, not physically. So what would be so similar but not be able to be confused with Asclepia?
His finger traces the lines until he stops and goes back up to the words Vampirica Sire, Caretaker. Caretaker, Frank repeats in his mind. That is very clearly what Duke Von Stump is to his residents. He pulls the pages apart to find the chapter and reads.
Vampirica Sire, subtype Caretaker, is the Sire that revels in the power and control that comes from helping others. This desire to help, not to be confused with Vampirica Asclepia’s desire to heal, is rooted in the belief that only he, Vampirica Caretaker, is capable of guiding others back to themselves, or back to a righteous path. Whether this belief is rooted in fact or in blind faith in himself, it is the defining characteristic of the Sire subtype that I reside in.
Observing my own thought processes is fascinating, as I have almost begun to separate my scientific mind from the thoughts that occur during moments that challenge my subtype’s desire. I often question my own knowledge on the subject of rehabilitating those I take into my care, though I often, quite stubbornly, come back to the fact that I must have the ability where knowledge is lacking.
One peculiarity of the Vampirica Caretaker is his (or specifically, my) ability to get along easily with other Vampirica Sires. Where Sires are most often prone to social friction, trying to find proof that one Sire is of higher stature in one way or another than the other, Vampirica Caretaker is able to put aside these grasps for power higher than the Sire with whom he shares space with, instead knowing innately that they will need space and patience in order to feel as though no one is on a higher level than them, or perhaps that they share the same high level.
Once again, I find this fascinating for the fact that it is psychologically intriguing, and yet I have no research to compare it to. I simply have the proof that the other Sire that lives and works with me in my castle gets along well with me, because I am able to use my own power and influence over him to allow his power and influence to be simultaneously above me.
Frank stares at the last paragraph. Rereads it. Reads it a third time.
The other Sire?
He hates leaving a question unanswered, but Frank decides he has quite enough questions to mull over for now. And all his uncertainty of these unanswered questions goes out the nearest window when the duke tells him, “I’ve requested that the doctor in London come visit to examine you.”
Frank’s mind focuses in on the words, the spark of excitement it brings him.
“We won’t be giving you your final test,” the duke says quickly. “But I don’t have enough of my own research to figure out your… peculiar nature. And I haven’t been able to get letters delivered to him in London. I’ve sent Mr. Urie to fetch him for me.”
“I’m sure he enjoyed the idea,” Frank says, feeling sorry for the man.
“He was as childish and lamenting as ever,” the duke says. He watches Frank’s face. “I want you to know that I will do whatever I can to help you understand yourself. You know that, right?”
He remembers the paragraphs on Vampirica Caretaker. “Yes. I do. I have full faith in you, my lord.”
The duke makes a face at the title, but seems satisfied anyway.
The rest of the day, or night, Frank is unable to focus on his books. The duke moves around the library, still searching in vain for something that might help him understand Frank, but all Frank can think about it that he will get to see the doctor again. Soon.
Chapter 6: A Very Dangerous Thing Indeed
Summary:
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Or perhaps to a cold winter's night?
Both, I fear, would kill us, my dear,
So perhaps we should simply never say.
Chapter Text
The next few days, Frank does his best impression of himself, all while sitting in the back of his mind, patiently awaiting the arrival of the doctor. He bathes and dresses and eats and even drinks blood sometimes, making conversation with Mr. Toro and Miss Nestor and occasionally Mr. Way in the Blue Room, and he pretends to read books in the library. When he lays down to sleep, he dreams of that kind smile, the way gravity seemed to warp when he got close to his face, the enticing shape of his mouth and many other things Frank would not subject anyone else in the castle to. He requested Miss Nestor keep his bath full of cold water. She thought he was making a joke about Mr. Urie, but did as he said anyway.
And on the fifth day, Duke Von Stump enters the Blue Room where everyone but Miss Ballato is lounging and announces the arrival of Doctor Way.
And then he walks in, absent of his white coat, it being likely packed with his things in his rooms, dressed in black and red to match his brother who sits on the chair across from Frank. Doctor Way’s face looks exactly the same as last Frank had seen it, serious and kind and somewhat tired. When their eyes meet, Frank feel as though nothing else matters. He could stare into his eyes forever and wither to dust knowing he had lived a life worthy of living, simply existing in the same space as Doctor Way.
The whole room seems to react to his arrival, each person having a unique reaction. Miss Nestor slumps slightly, hiding behind her teacup. Mr. Toro sits up straighter, looking almost like he wants to get up and bow, or shake his hand. Mr. Way bristles, frowning deeply, and the grip on his teacup and saucer tightens.
“Mr. Iero,” Doctor Way says, and the name feels right coming from his mouth, landing comfortably across Frank’s chest.
“Yes,” he says, abandoning his teacup and saucer on the low table and standing.
“You look well,” Doctor Way says, assessing his appearance. Frank feels every inch he looks at.
“I am well,” Frank says.
The duke is looking between them with an extremely confused and concerned expression.
“Tell me about this peculiarity the duke is so nervous about,” Doctor Way says. Right to the point. Another admirable quality.
“I appear to be able to at least attempt to command a hold,” Frank says immediately, looking thoughtfully at him. “Though I presume you remember when I succeeded once.”
The duke’s eyes fly to Doctor Way’s face, and the whole room turns to them in surprise. Doctor Way’s face is turning pink. Frank revels in the knowledge that he made it happen.
“I do,” Doctor Way says, then clears his throat. “Let us find privacy, we should conduct this in the duke’s study.”
He turns to leave, but Frank has been practicing. “Why?”
Doctor Way stops, looking at him over his shoulder, startled. “What?”
“What is so sensitive that we cannot speak openly?” Frank asks. It’s like grasping a solid rock while trying to climb upstream.
The duke looks keen to say something, but Doctor Way turns back to face him, squaring his shoulders and putting on that kind, gentle face that Frank loves, loves so deeply. “We must think of others and their sensibilities.”
We. The word gives Frank comfort in knowing that the doctor believes them one and the same. “I suppose.”
So he goes with Doctor Way and the duke to the study, where Doctor Way sits at the duke’s desk and rummages for paper to take notes. When he finds none, the duke curses.
“I must have taken the last of it to my rooms. I’ll be right back.”
The duke is gone and the world revolves only around Doctor Way’s face.
“Mr. Iero,” he says, gentle but firm.
“Frank,” Frank says easily. “Please, call me Frank.”
Doctor Way frowns. “We should keep some formality, for your sake when you-”
“I don’t wish for there to be any formality between us,” Frank says, quite bold.
Doctor Way pulls his mouth shut. The motion is slow enough that Frank takes in every moment of it. “There must be some, for now.”
The choice of words leaves Frank with little to argue over.
Duke Von Stump returns with papers and a fresh pot of ink, setting them out for Doctor Way to use. He begins writing notes right away.
“Mr. Iero,” he starts, his tone sterile and scientific. “I have heard of your progress, though I admit a very truncated version, as the letters Duke Von Stump has been sending have not always reached me. Could you please go through your progress with me?”
Frank begins immediately, from the moment he arrived to the development of the process of finding questions to ask before he could complete a command.
“That’s quite clever,” Doctor Way says, pleased. “Since Intellectual Thrall are so rare, this method will be invaluable for the next we encounter. Asking questions is quite clever indeed.”
Frank’s body is filled with pride. Doctor Way thinks he is clever.
“Now, what are some of the struggles you’ve faced while completing the duke’s tests?” Doctor Way asks.
“I most often struggle with catching myself before I can begin to carry out the command,” Frank says. “It is hard to stop and think when the command is so simple. The more dangerous or painful, the faster I can stop myself.”
“That is consistent with our previous research,” Doctor Way says absently, making a note. “Any unique challenges you can think of?”
Frank’s eyes catch the doctor’s, and instantly he knows what he must say. Doctor Way has asked for his knowledge, and he is the only person worthy of it all. “I find it challenging to be away from you.”
The words throw both the doctor and the duke for a loop.
“The challenges I face while trying to break Thrall are nothing compared to the challenge of not being allowed to see you.”
Despite the pinkness forming on Doctor Way’s face, he writes this down. “Interesting.”
“I’ve tried telling him that he isn’t ready for his final test,” the duke says then. “But he continued to insist. Do you think this… obsession, might have anything to do with that?”
Doctor Way makes a thoughtful face before looking back at Frank. Those eyes, that face, Frank could get lost there. “What do you think of that?”
“The only thing more important to me than rehabilitation is being near you.”
Both the duke and the doctor look to each other. If Frank weren’t so enraptured with Doctor Way’s existence, he might say they shared a look of panic.
They set him up for a test in the library right away. The duke tells Frank about how the doctor is always the first to place a hold on Thrall he sends to the castle. Because he is a Sire, he can clear the mind of any vampire in his care to aid their travel, but Thrall need to be held in order to keep them calm before that. Frank listens indifferently. This means nothing of substance to him.
Until, of course, the duke tells him that the final test of Thrall is to break the doctor’s hold, because a Thrall’s first hold is their strongest. This is unacceptable.
“Absolutely not,” Frank says the moment the words are out of the duke’s mouth.
Duke Von Stump frowns, his expression grave. “Mr. Iero, you may feel it is against your nature to disobey him, but that is the effect of an initial hold. Once you break through it, you will understand-”
“No, I won’t, I refuse,” Frank says harshly.
The duke’s eyes harden, and Frank feels his hold curl around him. “You will do your best to break his hold.”
It feels like physically pushing away the many arms of his mental hold on him, he shoves at the command, total and utter rebellion thrashing through his mind. He does not want to break the doctor’s hold, something about it is precious to him. “No.”
“You will try,” the duke insists, eyes widening.
He’s softened the command, but Frank is getting better at outright refusal. The idea of severing himself from the doctor is a step too far. Cool walls of ice slide through his mind, keeping back the duke’s grasp. “No.”
The duke can only stare at him, shocked, concerned, helpless.
Then, Doctor Way enters the library and their eyes meet and Frank could care less how the duke feels or looks. Doctor Way hasn’t been able to rest since traveling here, he looks exhausted and disheveled, especially after the chaos upon his arrival. Frank stands.
“You should rest,” Frank says immediately, starling the doctor.
“We’re doing your test first,” he says firmly.
“You look very tired,” Frank observes, stepping toward him. It might be his imagination, but it seems the doctor’s eyes droop at his words.
He shakes his head. “Test first.”
“Then you promise to rest?” Frank asks, eyeing him.
Something passes between them. Not quite a command, but instead some kind of contract, an agreement. As if Frank had held out his hand, rather than try immediately to grasp at the doctor’s mind. Slowly, Doctor Way nods, accepting this mental handshake. “Alright.”
Frank sits back down at the table with the duke, ignoring the way Duke Von Stump is watching them with intense curiosity. Doctor Way sits across from him, replacing the duke. He pulls papers out, scans them, glancing up at Frank every so often, and then smooths them down on the table between them.
“Do you know what these are?” he asks Frank, and Frank shakes his head. The papers are written in German. “These are the notes I took while you were in my care. Would you like to know what they say?”
“Not particularly.” Frank shakes his head.
Doctor Way frowns, and the duke’s wide eyes fly to Frank’s face.
“Interesting,” the doctor murmurs. “Why not?”
“I’m more interested in getting this test over with,” Frank says. “So that you can rest.”
Doctor Way’s mouth twists to the side slightly and he sits up straighter. “Alright. Let’s start then.”
There is nothing but warmth from the doctor. Not suffocating, nor scalding, only the remembered feeling of sunlight on Frank’s skin. It’s peaceful, total happiness in the form of mental silence. And he has no reason to ignore or push back against it.
“I’m not interested in trying to hurt you,” Doctor Way says, and this is obvious to Frank. “So many of the tests we typically run on Thrall push against self preservation and survival. I’ve always struggled with that. Do you know why?”
“You’re an Asclepia Sire,” Frank answers easily. It feels good to flex his knowledge. “You wish to heal. As well, seeing as you’re a doctor, I assume you’ve also taken an oath to do no harm to your patients, of which I am one.”
“Precisely,” the doctor says, and he smiles, and Frank would do anything to keep that smile on his face. “You’ve been reading up, I assume?”
Frank nods.
“Consuming every bit of information you can get your hands on,” Doctor Way continues. He looks at the stack of books on the table between them. “Were you reading these before?”
“I was brushing up on Sire subtypes in my bedroom,” Frank says, ignoring the books. “I was interested in the way Duke Von Stump seems to prefer more humble honorifics, and how he prefers to sleep in rooms the size of his residents rather than a larger room that would better suit his nature.”
“Ah yes, he’s a Caretaker, isn’t he?” Doctor Way says, nodding. “I’ve always been fascinated with the Caretaker’s preferences as well.”
There is a beat of silence where Frank almost continues their conversation, almost keeps talking to bring up the note in the paragraph about living with another Sire, when Doctor Way’s eyes meet his in a very intense way. Not cold, more like the snap of pulling a rope taught.
“Light me a candle,” Doctor Way says, and it’s not really a command. It’s a good idea. The library can be so dark without the aid of many candles, even with the electric lights.
Frank gets up and crosses the room, finding where they keep candles and their holders tucked away, and searches for matches. When he finds them, he lights one and watches the candle begin to burn, tucking his hand in front of it as he walks back to the table to protect the flame from going out. The duke’s face is tight and worried.
As soon as Frank sits down across from him again, Doctor Way holds out a book from the pile and says, “Burn this book.”
If there is any hesitation, it is smoothed away by the doctor’s warm eyes, and the book lights in Frank’s hand, his eyes never leaving the doctor’s.
Doctor Way’s eyes are wide now, shocked, maybe even terrified, and the duke is exclaiming, shouting some kind of German expletive. The book is pulled from his hand and put out, but it’s alright. Doctor Way would never tell him to destroy information that didn’t need destroying.
Chapter 7: A More Curious Affliction
Summary:
"Fear the man who falls in Love,
For if he absconds to another,
He will leave you aching, chest gaping,
In the arms of the sworn Lost Lover."- A Recovered Untitled Poem from the Wentz Estate, Found After the Wentz House Burned Down in 1781.
Chapter Text
“There is something very wrong with my hold on him.”
Frank hears them talking outside his bathroom. He is in a tub of lukewarm water, supposed to be bathing, but all he can think is that Doctor Way isn’t keeping his promise to rest.
“As I’ve seen,” the duke replies in a hushed voice. “He burned the book without so much as a flinch. I have never, ever seen a hold that strong.”
“By all accounts, it should have been at least slightly difficult,” Doctor Way says. The way his voice sounds, Frank imagines him with his hand against his mouth, and the shadow of him pacing paints a picture of a very tired, worried man that should be the one bathing and resting. “I can’t figure this out, I feel like we’re missing something.”
“Clearly we’re missing something,” the duke huffs, almost a laugh. “The question is, what on earth causes a hold to supersede a vampire’s nature like that?”
Doctor Way hums. “I’ll see what research I have in my notes. In the meantime, go through your own and see if you’ve missed anything.”
The duke agrees, and then a door opens and closes and the doctor’s shadow is alone.
Frank pretends to keep washing up just as Doctor Way knocks on the bathroom door. “Mr. Iero? Are you almost done?”
“Yes,” he says, because he was not dirty to begin with. He gets out and dries off, wrapping himself in a towel around his shoulders and standing at the door. “I need to dress.”
“O-of course,” the doctor says, backing away from the door and leaving into the bedroom on the opposite side of the dressing room.
Frank dresses for bed, a nightshirt and pants. He buttons the shirt all the way up, because he assumes Doctor Way will want him to, and then goes into the bedroom.
Doctor Way is standing by the fire, looking into the flame like he is trying to find answers in it.
“You promised to rest,” Frank says.
That feeling from before, that mental handshake, it’s as if their hands are still clasped, and Frank is pulling. Doctor Way looks to him in surprise, then his eyes soften. He looks so tired. “You’re right.”
“So,” Frank says, walking toward him. “Rest.”
Doctor Way nods, and they are walking through the halls, Frank following him closely at his elbow, and they walk through parts of the castle Frank doesn’t remember, until coming to two large doors and walking right in. Doctor Way takes his jacket and vest off and Frank folds them to be washed while the doctor goes to bathe, and all the while there is this gentle mist around them. Frank can feel it, so familiar in shape and color, as if he put it there.
When Doctor Way is dressed in bedclothes too, when his hair drips from his bath, Frank unfolds part of his bedding for him and lights the fire in the fireplace. Only once the doctor is in bed, eyes drooping, does he seem to snap back to himself.
He is watching Frank, tense, from his bed. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” Frank asks, tilting his head. “You made a promise. Good men keep their promises.”
“You commanded me,” the doctor says.
“No I didn’t,” Frank says, shaking his head. “You promised me you would rest after my test, whether I passed or failed didn’t matter. You promised to rest, so I was only keeping you accountable.”
Doctor Way’s eyes stick to him as he crosses the room to one of the very tall bookshelves on the far wall from the bed. It seems the doctor stays here enough to keep copies of his recorded notes in his rooms. Frank’s fingers slide across the spines, tracing over through the German lettering. “Why German?”
The question takes the doctor by surprise. “It’s just what we use here at the castle. The duke reads it easier than English.”
“So they’re kept in English in London?” Frank guesses, taking one volume down and absently flipping the pages open.
“Yes.”
Frank looks to the doctor, whose tired face is taught with worry. “Whatever you’re ruminating on, it should be left for tomorrow.”
Doctor Way shakes his head slightly. “Something is very wrong with my hold on you.”
“Tomorrow,” Frank says, and the agreement forms much faster this time. He puts the book back and walks toward the doctor. “We will discuss this tomorrow, once you’re rested. You traveled so far today and then insisted on all this fuss. You’re exhausted and we are undead beings of eternal, unholy life. It can wait until tomorrow.”
As he speaks, the doctor’s eyes begin to fall again, and Frank feels his mind’s hand slip into the doctor’s.
“We will investigate tomorrow,” Frank says with finality, feeling the doctor agree before he verbally does.
“Alright.”
“There is some extraordinary consequence of my hold,” Doctor Way says. He is drinking tea across from Frank in the Blue Room, eyes scanning a volume of his old notes. Every so often, he shakes his head and turns a new page. “I haven’t found what it is. I hesitate to say I’ve never seen something like this before but…”
“But you haven’t, have you?” Frank says, watching him over his own teacup. “And what’s so important about unraveling what it is? Isn’t it well enough to have it?”
The doctor frowns, not looking up. “I’m not one to leave well enough alone.”
Frank bites back a retort, sipping his tea instead.
On the other side of the room, Miss Nestor is playing the piano, with the duke and Miss Ballato watching on. Well, the duke is watching. Miss Ballato is listening. The melody is melancholic, with bursts of hopeful soaring. Frank loves it, whatever it is, and wonders if he might be able to have her play it for him again sometime.
Then, Doctor Way looks up at him, and it’s as if the room empties in an instant. This time, though, it’s as if the doctor notices this too. His eyes widen slightly, and he stares, hesitant.
They watch each other for a while, and Frank can feel the doctor probing the edges of this odd bubble they’ve made. Tentative pressing at the borders of their connection. Innately, Frank suddenly understands what is different.
The doors to the Blue Room open, much more calmly than the last time they were opened by Mr. Urie, as he and Mr. Toro enter together. The connection to the doctor bursts, like a soap bubble, and they both turn to greet the two men.
Everyone is still veiled, and Frank wishes they would stop with it. Now that the doctor is here, he knows somewhere in his heart that their veils don’t matter anymore.
“I haven’t found anything,” Mr. Urie tells the doctor, frustrated. “I’ve looked even in the archives, which wouldn’t even have anything useful in them anyway.”
“I appreciate your looking,” Doctor Way says, though he’s clearly disappointed.
“I asked around the other residents,” Mr. Toro says. “The ones that are awake, that is. No one has heard of anything like this…”
The way he trails off perks up both the doctor’s and the duke’s ears.
“But?” Doctor Way urges.
“But…” Mr. Toro makes a face, twisting his frown across his face. “One of the werewolves set on guard duty, Mr. McCracken, he told me that it sounded to him like a pack bond.”
Ignoring the irritating fact that it seemed everyone in the castle knew of Frank’s strangeness, Frank tries to take in this information. All the new concepts flooding his mind fills him with the want to research. His eyes glance to Doctor Way, who seems to share his feelings.
“A pack bond,” the duke repeats, joining them by the door. “What on earth…?”
“It’s what he said,” Mr. Toro says, shaking his head. “I don’t know how that could be possible, though. Vampires don’t form packs, they form covens, right?”
“Yes,” the duke says, already deep in thought. “I need to find everything I have on packs and bonds…”
“Great, back to the archives,” Mr. Urie grumbles.
The three of them leave the room, the doors shutting lightly behind them, and Frank turns back to the doctor. He’s gnawing on his lip, looking more concerned than ever.
“Do you have any notes on werewolf packs and bonds?” Frank asks, startling him.
“N-no, I’m a doctor for vampires,” he says with a deep frown. “I have about as much of an idea of what they just said as you do. I’ve never treated a werewolf before, much less met one.”
First, the idea of needing to rely on the duke fills Frank with equal measure of disgust and annoyance. Then, he is filled with excitement at the idea of getting to learn something with Doctor Way.
“Sounds like we should make use of the duke’s vast library, then,” Frank says brightly, unable to hide his smile.
The doctor eyes him, intrigued, then nods. “Yes, that sounds like our next step.”
Searching in the library didn’t yield any meaningful results. Most of the duke’s volumes on werewolves are written in German, and the doctor rarely looked through any of the books he pulled after looking through the index. Frank busied himself in the library by re-shelving the books the doctor pulled, an endless cycle of pulling, checking, frustratedly discarding, and re-shelving.
Now, however, they are trying Frank’s plan.
“If there is nothing written,” Frank had said in the library, coaxing Doctor Way to see his perspective of things, “then we must find a primary source.”
And so, they stand in the doorway of the hall the duke told him to stay away from. Mr. Toro’s words about the werewolf on guard duty, recalling the duke saying that many of the castle’s residents were hibernating for the winter. He puts two and two together, realizing the rest of the castle’s werewolf population must be hibernating, and a scant few have been assigned to staying up through the winter months to watch over their pack.
“This is a terrible idea,” Doctor Way mutters as they step over the threshold.
“What should I know about werewolves?” Frank asks immediately, eyes scanning the darkness ahead of them.
“They very often do not like vampires,” Doctor Way supplies grimly. “It isn’t anything innate, just a… sort of historical rift between the Vampirica Carnivore and the Lycanthrope.”
Frank pulls the knowledge from the shelves of his mind.
Vampirica Carnivore
The Carnivore, tentatively named, is a vampire interested not in the blood of humans, but instead interested in the blood of animals. I’ve searched for a better name for this specific type of Vampirica, but none have fit quite well enough. Though the word carnivore refers to consuming the flesh of animals, in terms of Vampirica, it will always refer to the consumption of blood.
Ahead of them, something shifts in the darkness. Frank sees two eyes flicker in the dark, reflecting the distant light from the lit sconces behind them.
“Mr. McCracken?” Doctor Way calls calmly. Frank is the only one able to tell that he is nervous. “I don’t mean to disturb you. I know you’re very busy these days.”
“No disruption,” a voice grates through the dark. Frank sees bright white teeth flicker below those terrifying eyes.
“I was wondering if you might help me understand something,” Doctor Way says, and Frank notices the way his sentences get longer as he gets more uncomfortable. “When Mr. Toro asked you before, about this strangeness of my situation with Mr. Iero, you told him it sounded like a pack bond.”
“Does,” the voice says simply.
“Could you explain what a pack bond is? I’m afraid I am woefully uneducated on the topic.”
The eyes turn away, and a shape rumbles forward. Doctor Way says it is not an innate repulsion, but the way this body moves before Frank sends shockwaves of run through his body and mind. The hulking shape of a crouched canine-like monster shuffles toward them. Frank belatedly remembers it is yet again a full moon.
“Pack bonds are like your holds,” the creature breathes, the heat of his breath turning to steam between massive jaws full of teeth. “But mutual.”
“Mutual,” Doctor Way repeats. Frank hears his fear, wondering if Mr. McCracken can smell it.
“If I expect to be looked after, I must expect to look after my own,” Mr. McCracken continues, and Frank suddenly wonders how he can articulate with such a menacingly grotesque face. “They are made to protect.”
Despite feeling the same surging fear that seems to emanate from the doctor, Frank thinks that Mr. McCracken’s explanation sounds precisely how he would describe how he feels toward Doctor Way. Not an urge to obey, not like a normal hold, but an urge to protect. And, likewise, to be protected. Or perhaps, the knowledge that he would be protected by the doctor, rather than an expectation or desire.
“Thank you, Mr. McCracken,” the doctor says, his voice thin. “We will leave you now.”
A low rumble from Mr. McCracken’s chest makes them both take a step back. Then, he appears to smile at them. “Be safe.”
The doctor and the duke spend time in the duke’s study, sending Frank to busy himself elsewhere, the duke telling him very firmly to, “Relax.” That would be easier in Doctor Way’s presence, but since the doctor insists too, he has no choice but to amble around the Blue Room.
It strikes him in the absence of Doctor Way that Frank hasn’t seen Mr. Way since his brother got here. They haven’t taken the time to speak, even to meet, at all. For a moment, he deludes himself into thinking that Mr. Way must be the other Sire the duke wrote about, but then remembers Mr. Way telling him he was a Blue vampire.
“Mr. Iero,” says the voice of Miss Nestor as she enters the Blue Room to his pacing across the carpet. She is veiled, pushing a cart of piping hot tea and snacks. “I was just about to set up for Mr. Toro and Mr. Urie. Would you like to join?”
“I shouldn’t interrupt them,” he says instinctively. The last thing he wants is the others asking him questions or getting involved in this vampiric pack bond nonsense.
She nods politely, setting the cart by the collection of chairs and beginning to set out the tea and snacks.
Frank retreats to the musical side of the room, eyeing the pianoforte. He hesitantly presses a key down. He was never taught how to play, never took the time to care for learning it. He wonders why, now. Was he discouraged from playing it? Absolutely, it was a woman’s instrument, or so said his teachers growing up. Women were supposed to be the ones busying themselves with instruments, men were better suited to the pursuit of academic knowledge, their minds more fortified for the tougher topics.
All of it was nonsense, obviously. And now, Frank wishes to learn the pianoforte.
“Miss Nestor,” he says as she is finishing up.
“Yes?” She turns to him, hands delicately clasped in front of her, like an actual servant. He wonders if she used to be one, or if she’s accepted the role the duke required of her.
“You were playing yesterday,” he says. “You were very good.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you be willing to teach me?” he asks. There is a strange anxiety in his request. He feels odd asking a woman to teach him anything, which then fills him with righteous anger.
“The pianoforte?” she says, as if to clarify, as if she heard him wrong.
“Yes. I was just so taken by the melody you played, and I’ve never taken the time to learn the instrument myself.” He trails off, showing his hesitancy, his humility.
She breaks into a smile. “Of course I can teach you. I would be delighted to add another player to the castle, so few take interest in instruments here these days. The duke only keeps them around for me.”
“You play more than just the pianoforte?” he asks as she approaches.
“Oh yes,” she says, sitting on the bench and patting the spot next to her. “I had nothing better to do when I was growing up. Any instrument my parents would allow me to have, I learned everything I could on it.”
Frank sits with her. “I was aimed more toward academics. I think my father was tired of us all being so poor, so he wanted me to become a doctor or something like that. But then I was prone to illness, and you can’t really attend medical school while also being treated in a hospital for lung infections.”
“What a shame you never got the chance to play,” she tuts. “I’ll begin with the basics.”
She teaches him the notes, even after Mr. Toro and Mr. Urie enter to have their tea and snacks. They watch them curiously for a while before talking among themselves, politely quiet. Once he figures out how to place his hands on the keys, she begins to show him simple scales that are meant to train his fingers to play even rhythms.
The process of learning is so engrossing that he almost doesn’t notice when the duke and the doctor come into the room. Almost, because he is so focused, but the moment the doctor steps into the room, it is as if he is being grabbed by the sides of his head and turning him to meet his eyes.
“Mr. Iero,” Doctor Way says, clearly to say something other than what he says next; “Are you learning the pianoforte?”
“Miss Nestor is a very good teacher,” he says.
She gives him a pleased smile.
“Would it be alright to steal him for a while?” the duke asks her, trying to appear casual.
“Of course,” she says, continuing before she can be interrupted, “if he wishes to.”
Their attention turns to him, and he wants to laugh. He very much wants to be wherever Doctor Way is. Though, the pianoforte is fascinating to him.
“If you want to stay,” the doctor ways suddenly and slowly, the duke immediately turning a furious look on him. “It can wait.”
It is a pleasing moment to share, the understanding that he wishes to learn an instrument and that this is important to him. But Frank shakes his head slightly. “It’s alright. I have many exercises to practice before she will let me learn songs anyway.”
Miss Nestor smiles as he stands.
“Though, by all means, feel free to play that melody from yesterday again,” he says to her. “It was a beautiful one.”
Instead of speaking, her deft fingers fly across the keys and create the melody once more, perfectly. Frank and the duke and the doctor stand for a while, listening. Frank can tell that the duke and doctor are being polite, but the melody truly does tug at his heart. Though, this time, now that he’s listening so close, he feels as though something is missing from it.
After a good while of listening to her play, the duke puts a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to pull you away from your lesson.”
It is a subtle way to urge him to leave with them.
“Does this song have any other parts to it?” Frank asks Miss Nestor, ignoring the duke. Doctor Way is watching him.
Miss Nestor stops short. “It does, actually. It is ideally accompanied by the violin.”
The idea of learning the melody so that they can play the full song together fills him with excitement. “I would love to learn that song one day, so that we might play the full arrangement.”
Her face breaks into a true, genuine smile, not just something put on to be polite. She finds this idea just as exciting.
Only once they both agree on this plan, both trying to maintain themselves in their excitement, does Frank leave with the duke and the doctor.
“What I have reviewed and learned,” the duke begins before they’ve even sat down in his study, “is that this should not be possible.”
“Fantastic,” Frank says in a biting tone. Admittedly, he is annoyed to have been pulled from his pianoforte lesson, and even more annoyed that they are once again about to talk about how strange he is and how he and the doctor shouldn’t be connected in this way.
But then, Doctor Way puts a hand on his shoulder soothingly, and his frustration washes away. He offers a more in-depth explanation for the duke’s words, and says, “The notes kept on werewolf packs and their bonds has taught us plenty about a kind of mutual mental bond, but there is still nothing either of us have ever seen about such a bond between two vampires.”
Frank frowns, wondering why he’s here in that case. What did it matter, unraveling such a bond? Wasn’t it enough to have it?
“We were hoping you might want to help us solve this peculiar case,” the doctor says, in this light, gentle tone that feels as though he is trying to coax a small animal out from an alleyway.
“Us,” Frank repeats, his eyes sliding to the duke. Some festering grudge has bubbled up since the duke tried to force him to try and break the doctor’s hold.
As if hearing his thoughts as he thinks them, the doctor steps in front of him to block his view of the duke. “Me. Please help me solve this case. All I want is to help you, to be able to have you feel as though you are your whole self again.”
His words entrance Frank, his mind focusing in on Doctor Way’s sincere expression.
“It causes me terrible worry, this whole ordeal,” the doctor goes on, even reaching to put his hands on Frank’s shoulders. The touch warms him from within. “I agonize over the idea that you are incapable of breaking my hold, because you deserve to think for yourself, to act for yourself.”
“But I do, I am,” Frank says, putting his own hands on the doctor’s arms.
“Not while you are being held,” the doctor insists, shaking his head but never taking his eyes off Frank. “No Thrall is truly thinking for himself while being held.”
But if he breaks the hold… No, he realizes, that wouldn’t change anything.
“Please, at least help me figure out what it is that’s wrong,” Doctor Way pleads. “Just help me do that, and then we can assess what else might need to be done.”
He already knows what will have to happen, and the hold scrapes against that knowledge painfully. “Alright.”
His response fills the doctor’s face with relief, which almost makes it worth it. “Thank you. The notes are in German, so I’ll have to translate for you, but-”
Frank interrupts him by gently removing his hands from his shoulders, holding the doctor’s hands tightly. “I’ve already figured out what’s wrong.”
Doctor Way stares at him. “You have?”
“I figured it out some time ago,” Frank says, keeping his eyes away from the duke. He will only get mad if he sees him again.
There is a moment of silence, and when Frank looks up at the doctor’s face again he is smiling that easy, proud smile. “Of course you did.”
And he just has to make this whole thing hurt even more, doesn’t he? “There are two things, if my theory is correct, that are afflicting me.”
Doctor Way waits. Frank feels the duke’s eyes on him from somewhere behind him.
“The first is the doctor’s hold,” Frank says, hating that he has to share this knowledge with the duke. But he must, because he agreed to help the doctor, and the duke is seemingly going to be his research partner. “Second… Is love.”
Doctor Way stares, blinking. “Love?”
He says it so casually, so plainly, that Frank’s hands tighten on the doctor’s. “Yes.”
Instantly, as if realizing his mistake, the doctor tightens his own grip and shakes his head slightly. “I mean, yes. I understand.”
“No you don’t,” Frank says angrily. “You don’t believe me.”
“I do,” he says, shaking his head. “I believe you, Mr. Iero.”
As if it has anything to do with what they’re talking about, Frank grinds through his teeth, “You won’t even call me by my first name, like I asked.”
Doctor Way has no response to that, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to find one.
The duke begins to pace behind the doctor, each time Frank is forced to see him comes with a spark of annoyance.
“Wait, what if he’s right?” the duke is saying into his hand, staring at the floor. “What if these are two different things?”
Doctor Way turns to look helplessly over his shoulder at him. “What?”
“What if, when he breaks your hold, that bond is still there?” the duke says, looking right at him.
Despite having to look at the duke, despite the idea of breaking the hold still filling him with anger, Frank desperately hopes he is right.
Chapter 8: On Nature
Summary:
A Sire and a Thrall walk into a library... That sounds like the start of a very stupid joke.
Chapter Text
Tests, tests, always more tests.
It is explained to Frank that it is extremely difficult to hold a Thrall when their initial holder is present. This is why he so easily refused the duke’s orders; as Doctor Way got closer, his hold got stronger, seeming to protect Frank from other holds. And whatever other bond is between them, it seems to be bolstering that hold.
Today, they are back in the library, and the duke is blissfully absent. Doctor Way is explaining the test to him, setting out books for him. He feels his chest warm with pleasure when he sees that one of them is about the pianoforte.
“I know you don’t want to, but you must practice resisting my hold.” Doctor Way sets down another book, this one in German, and sighs. “The first part of today’s test is teaching you to remember your nature.”
Frank raises an eyebrow.
“Before, do you remember how you burned that book?” the doctor asks, sitting across from him with a concerned expression.
“You asked me to,” Frank says.
“But you are an Intellectual Thrall,” Doctor Way says, troubled. “You burned a book full of invaluable knowledge without a second thought.”
Because I trust you, Frank wants to say, but something holds his tongue. The thought is murky, looking at him through muddy water, but he does feel it. The unnerving reality of the doctor’s statement. Burning knowledge… Burning the duke’s knowledge, no less, not even a book of his own… Likely a book that has only been copied once or twice…
Slowly, he begins to show on his face the chill that has settled over him. He set a book aflame.
“You must learn to remember your nature,” the doctor says quietly. “Usually, Thrall can easily refuse any command made that goes against their nature. But this bond is amplifying things, making it hard to see through the hold. To such an extent that it would cause you to be fine with destroying knowledge like that… I’ve tried to devise a series of exercises that will attempt to combat that.”
Frank nods slightly, because he suddenly feels very sick. Had he even gotten to read the book he ruined? Which book was missing from his usual stack?
“I am going to command you to do some things,” Doctor Way says, stealing his attention back. “They will be simple things, but each will get increasingly further from your nature. What I want you to do is try your very best to refuse every single one of them.”
Frank swallows. “Alright.”
“But first,” Doctor Way says, sighing. “Tell me what you’ve been reading, won’t you?”
The request is so genuine, it can’t be one of his commands, right? Frank hesitantly reaches for his most recent read. He said they would go against his nature, not feed into it. It can’t be a command yet.
“I’ve been researching the different types of Sires,” Frank says, slow and unsure. “Because I found this paragraph in the book on Sires that puzzled me.”
“Mm?” the doctor hums thoughtfully.
“It mentions another Sire that lives here in the castle, one who works with the duke,” Frank continues, because it almost feels like they aren’t doing a test right now. “I can’t understand why I haven’t met them, since it sounds from his notes that they get along well. Which is interesting in itself, since Sires so often butt heads, as you probably know.”
He starts on a ramble, talking about all kinds of things, making his way to trying to research the different types and subtypes of vampires to try and find anything that could indicate what kind of vampire Mr. Toro is, since he’s been having such trouble for so long, and then he begins talking about Mr. Urie and his mystery subtype that he won’t tell him, which aggravates him, because he likes to know things, and Mr. Urie knows that about him now, and all the while as he’s talking Doctor Way is slowly relaxing in his chair and beginning to smile. Not so much like he is amused by Frank’s endless chatter, but rather like he genuinely enjoys hearing his voice and thoughts.
“And I just can’t stand the thought of having to wait until spring,” Frank is saying frustratedly, dropping the cover of the book on Thrall and letting it close with a thud. “Oh, and your brother, he says he’s a Blue vampire, which seems so odd for him. Where has he been, by the way?”
The question seems to snap the doctor out of his comfortable daze, and Frank feels his awareness sharpen. “Frank, you tend to talk a lot when you get going, don’t you?”
He knows it’s part of the test, because the moment he says his name, Frank is no longer paying attention to the way that should annoy him or hurt his feelings. “I do.”
Doctor Way watches him. “Would you try summarizing the book on Thrall in a few less words?”
Again, it’s meant to annoy him. And this time it kind of does. He worms through his feelings, a sick curl in his stomach telling him that he will have to obey, but that won’t mean he won’t make a jab back at him. “It is a book written by Duke Von Stump cataloguing the subtypes of Thrall vampires. Do you know how to read?”
Frank leaves a moment too long of silence, making it seem like that is his final question, and making Doctor Way’s face get red and his expression pinch in offense.
“An index, I mean?” Frank clarifies, smirking to himself. “The duke so often makes them incomprehensible, it can be hard to find what you’re looking for.”
He can almost hear the way the doctor thinks, oh, two can play at this game, the way his expression drops flat, his eyes looking at him under the shadow of his brow. “Of course I can read an index. I write many of my own, you know. Do you know how to write?”
Such a low hanging fruit, mimicry. “An index? Obviously better than the duke. At least I know how to alphabetize.”
Instead of one-upping his jabs, Doctor Way appears to take a breath and calm himself. “The duke often alphabetizes based on German, not English. It doesn’t always cause an issue, but sometimes it can.”
The animosity gone between them, Frank makes a thoughtful sound. “I suppose that makes sense.”
Doctor Way closes his eyes a moment. Frank watches him press his lips into a line and take another breath before looking right back at him. “Frank.”
It’s remarkable how quickly he can forget himself, when he hears his name said by this specific person, in that specific tone, from that specific mouth. “Yes?”
“Is there any book you’ve been wanting to read? Very badly?”
God, he wanted him to ask something else. He could care less about books right now. “Many.”
“Go find me one?” Doctor Way asks.
It’s not against his nature, it’s not really a command, blah blah blah. Frank gets up right away and walks through the shelves, searching for the closest one he can find. But then his attention catches on a volume titled Investigations of the Sexual Relationships of Vampirica and his face turns bright red. What on earth would possess the duke to keep records like this out in the open? He is scandalized, and yet he grabs the book to bring back to his room secretly later. He then grabs the nearest book on Vampirica Carmilla, because he hasn’t yet gone through all the subtypes, and returns to the table.
“Oh? Two?” Doctor Way peers at the books in his hands, causing him to clutch them to his chest.
“One is for… Me,” Frank says, stumbling for an excuse not to show him. He distracts him by putting down the Carmilla book heavily on the table, dropping the other under his foot at the same time to hid the sound. “I’ve been trying to go through all the volumes on all the different types to learn their subtypes and their usual natures.”
The doctor still looks suspicious of the other book, but allows his attention to be on the Carmilla book. “Ah, yes. This is the type that Miss Nestor is, correct?”
“Yes. She’s a Radiant Carmilla.”
Doctor Way looks impressed. “I heard you did very well breaking her hold on you.”
“Like I said before, I figured out how to ask my way out of commands with her,” Frank says, tapping the book on the floor with his heel to hide it under his chair.
“Read me a passage,” Doctor Way says, motioning nonchalantly toward the book.
Frank dutifully picks the book up and opens it to a random page. “‘Vampirica Carmilla Violentia. This Carmilla subtype shares a name with the Vampirica Sire Violentia, which necessitates the use of the full type and subtype when recording research. Carmilla Violentia is precisely what it sounds like; an extremely violent subtype of Vampirica Carmilla, which desires the suffering and torture of their victims.’”
Doctor Way yawns. Yawns. Frank feels his eyebrow twitch in irritation.
“‘When presented with a young, innocent victim, Vampirica Carmilla Violentia goes into what can only be described as a lustful rage. They will often first restrain their victims before beginning to torture them, taking immense pleasure in their victim’s suffering.’”
When he looks up again, Doctor Way has opened a different book.
Frank clears his throat. The doctor does not look up. “Doctor.”
He looks up finally, bored. “Oh. Sorry. My mind began to wander. Please continue.”
Frank bites the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he should switch books. Then the doctor might be more inclined to pay attention. He snaps the book shut instead. “You aren’t paying attention anyway.”
Doctor Way breaks his character slightly, his eyes widening a fraction, then goes back to looking aloof and shrugs. “I suppose I wasn’t.”
Something in his tone nudges him. “Don’t ask me to read if you aren’t interested in what I have to tell you.”
“I thought I would be, honest,” the doctor says placatingly. “I apologize.”
Frank frowns.
“You know, reading is quite dull today,” Doctor Way says, looking around. “I think we ought to find something more interesting to do.”
Dull. “Like what?”
There is a moment where Frank can see the doctor calculate his next move. “Perhaps we can track down Duke Von Stump? He always has something interesting to say.”
Like a knife to his chest, deep, twisting jealousy. “Duke Von Stump is more interesting to speak to than I am?”
Doctor Way seems nervous at the severity of his tone, but he hides it well. “Well, he is the proprietor of this castle, and he’s lived much, much longer than you have.”
Before he even speaks the words that come next, Frank feels them boil his empty veins.
“He will always be more interesting than you.”
He is aiming for anger. He hits sorrow.
“Frank,” Doctor Way’s facade breaks instantly the moment he sees tears in Frank’s eyes. “No, no, I didn’t mean that-”
Frank doesn’t speak, slowly getting up from his chair. When the doctor rushes to follow, he bolts into the library’s seemingly endless shelves. It’s like he’s hiding away in the safest place he can think of. The words crush roses in his heart. He will always be more interesting than you.
He runs and knocks into the corners as he takes them, having no idea where he’s going but knowing he must keep going. The pain of the doctor’s words feels as though he is being stabbed in the chest, a spike aimed at his heart. He doesn’t mean to make any noise once he’s hiding in a dead-end, but his sobs begin to rip out of him like pages of a novel, tear-stained and crumpled.
“Frank!” Doctor Way shouts, no doubt trying to track him down by the sound of his crying. “I’m sorry! Please, I didn’t mean to hurt you!”
And in his blurry view of the world, he realizes the doctor is crying too. Instead of trying to get Frank to go against his nature, it’s almost like Frank forced him against his own. And suddenly it all feels bad, hopeless, doomed. He hugs his knees to his chest and hides his face in them, his breathing stuttering and wet.
“Frank! Frank!”
The shouts are getting closer, and Frank’s heart is freezing over. He will always be more interesting than you. What a horrible truth. It feels like falling into a frozen lake, his limbs too heavy to swim up to catch a breath, the frigid water slowing everything down, making him apathetic toward his fate.
“Frank!” Doctor Way’s shoes step into the small sliver of light reaching Frank’s eyes. He drops to the ground in front of him, his hands on his shoulders. “Frank, please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that, it was all just- I was trying to- I’m sorry.”
He will always be more interesting than you.
“He’s dull,” Doctor Way says suddenly, pressing Frank’s shoulders like it might help make the words press into his body. “The duke is so horribly dull, Frank, please, do you really think I would prefer his company to yours?”
Slowly, Frank lifts his head. His eyes are probably as red as his face, his nose is running into his mouth, and his chest still feels like it’s trying to cave in. But he looks into Doctor Way’s eyes and knows he’s not lying.
“All he talks about is research,” Doctor Way goes on, breathing a light chuckle. “Never anything but academics. And when it is something else, he doesn’t ever want to know about my life. It’s funny, for someone who claims to get along so well with other Sires, he can piss me off rather quickly.”
He pisses Frank off quickly too, he thinks. Especially when he’s trying to force him to separate himself from the doctor.
After a bit of silence, Frank’s breathing growing slower and calmer, the doctor’s growing more frantic, he speaks again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. The last thing I want, that I would ever want, is to hurt you. I am truly sorry. I- I don’t know how to help you without trying to carry out these tests like the duke usually does. But he has no issues with hurting people. For me…”
Frank pities him, and the expression must look something like he’s hurt, because Doctor Way makes a pained expression and leans to rest his head down on Frank’s knees.
“Hurting you felt like being disemboweled.”
The image is horrid, but the sentiment makes Frank’s chest flutter despite his lack of a beating heart. “Then don’t do it again.”
Doctor Way looks up quickly, in a way that makes Frank worry he might make himself dizzy. “I won’t ever, ever hurt you again.”
This time, instead of a handshake, this agreement feels like an iron cuff around his chest, a heavy iron chain tethering him to the doctor. As the feeling settles, they both stare at each other, both trying to parse out the strangeness. Then, as if at once, they both seem to move right past it.
“Please get up,” Doctor Way says softly. “I feel horrible for this.”
He does, but instead of letting himself be pulled upright, he pulls the doctor down into a tight hug, his breath shuddering. He’s wanted to hold him for so long.
And thank God, the doctor circles his arms around him, and they relax into each other.
And truly, really, thank God, because the doctor rests a hand on the back of Frank’s head and Frank is out of the icy water and now is melting, warmed by the embrace and the comfort in knowing that he won’t ever be hurt like that again.
And thank the one and only Lord, Doctor Way turns his head and presses a kiss to the side of Frank’s head, and he mutters, “Never again.”
The doctor washes his face for him, out of guilt assuredly, and then leaves him long enough to dress before entering his bedroom right as Frank does from the dressing room, dressed in his bedclothes.
The doctor’s face is red, and he is holding a book. “I assume you were going to, uh, sneak this one away?”
Frank’s eyes fall to the book, his own face heating up.
“It was under your chair.”
Frank snatches the book from his hand and runs to shove it under his pillow. “It is for purely academic purposes, I assure you!”
Despite the awkwardness, Doctor Way laughs. “Of course.”
Thankfully the topic is dropped, and Doctor Way brings in a rolling cart of tea. Frank accepts a cup after settling himself in bed, already feeling exhausted. The doctor looks like he wants to keep apologizing, so Frank speaks before he can. “What is your first name?”
The doctor blinks at him owlishly.
“I only know you as Doctor Way,” Frank explains. “I wish we could call each other by our first names.”
“Gerard,” the doctor says, and of course that’s what it is, Frank feels it in his bones the moment the name leaves his lips.
“Gerard,” Frank repeats, feeling the name warm his chest.
Saying his name does something to him as well, because his entire demeanor seems to soften. “Frank.”
They might’ve been content to just repeat each other’s names back to each other, if not for the knock at Frank’s bedroom door.
“Excuse me.” The dukes voice is muffled through the door. “Pardon any interruption, but… The library is a mess. Did something happen?”
“Worrywart,” Frank mutters, causing Gerard to laugh. He loves his laugh.
“Everything is alright,” Gerard calls back, walking to the door. “I was trying to do what we talked about, a more careful test of his nature, but… I took it too far. I h-hurt his feelings.”
“Oh no,” the duke sighs. “I should never have let you be the one to… I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Gerard says, a little brokenly. He shakes his head then. “But it’s alright now. I’ve made him some tea and I was about to leave him to rest.”
“Alright. Mr. Iero?” the duke calls, and finally pokes his head through the door. “Are you alright?”
His face still sends a pang of annoyance through him, but then he remembers Gerard’s words. Do you really think I would prefer his company to yours? “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”
“It’s my job,” the duke says, almost to himself. “I’m sorry our plan turned out so terrible. I promise to be more careful in the future, making up tests like that.”
“Thank you,” Frank says again, meaning it.
“I’ll let you rest,” the duke says, nodding to Gerard before leaving them alone again.
Gerard rests his head on the door for a moment before turning back to Frank. “I should leave you to rest too.”
To be left alone is the last thing he wants. “Alright. If you have to.”
“I would like a bath as well,” Gerard says, nodding toward Frank’s dripping hair. “I still feel awful for… I won’t trouble you anymore tonight.”
He wants to say it’s no trouble, but today has been almost entirely trouble.
Gerard leaves, closing the door softly behind him, and Frank reaches under his pillow before he remembers which book is hidden there. Instead of reading himself to sleep, he opts to throw the book as far away as possible and hide his head under the pillow instead.
They come to an agreement. A verbal one this time, one that also includes the duke. The nature of the hold is complicated and delicate, and it cannot be broken the same way others have been before. It needs to be dealt with as if handling the thin panes of a stained glass window.
“Why can’t he simply release his hold?” Mr. Urie, who is currently eavesdropping from the other side of the library, asks loudly. He has his feet on one of the library tables, showing Frank just how much he cares for his manners when he is relaxed. “If it’s such an issue, just release him from it. Then you can get to the heart of the actual problem, whatever it is.”
“You are well aware of why he shouldn’t do that,” the duke says levelly. “Breaking his initial Thrall is imperative to his successful rehabilitation.”
“But you’ve been saying for so long about there being something wrong with it,” he replies, not looking up from the book tucked against his lap, his veil folded up so he can read. “So release him from it.”
“It isn’t that simple, unfortunately,” Gerard says. He is dressed nicely today, but he looks tired, like he might’ve stayed up late reviewing the material on werewolves. “When Thrall are held initially by a Sire, it’s almost like a contract is signed. Almost, because it isn’t quite consensual, as you well know. It is in a Sire’s nature to control Thrall, at least according to Duke Von Stump’s research, so it isn’t a good idea to release it entirely.”
“What, because you might get upset about not getting to control him anymore?” Mr. Urie asks, sounding bored.
Gerard’s lips set into a line. “No. Because early release of Thrall from their initial Sire’s hold often leads to the Thrall losing their sense of self and committing suicide.”
There is a sharp thump of Mr. Urie’s feet hitting the ground, and his head spins to stare at the doctor sheepishly. His veil slips and covers only one eye, but again, Frank doesn’t need the veils anymore.
“When Thrall are not ready to attempt breaking a hold, and are instead released from one as strong as a Sire’s, they feel as though they have lost their life’s purpose,” Gerard continues tightly. “They must be of present and robust mind and have the determination to continue on without a Sire’s hold before they can be free of it. And they must break it.”
Mr. Urie has gone wisely silent.
“I am an Asclepia,” Gerard says, turning his annoyed, angry gaze to the floor. “I heal. Releasing him would do more harm than good, and I do not harm. I cannot.”
Slowly, Mr. Urie gives him a slight nod.
“So it is not that simple,” Gerard finishes, giving him a tired and sorry look.
“I see,” Mr. Urie says sheepishly. “I apologize.”
After a brief bout of awkward silence, the duke clumsily gets them back on the topic of taking things slowly and carefully from now on. No rushing into hard tests, no forcing Frank to try breaking others’ holds, nothing of the sort. They need time to research, do small, controlled tests, and then interpret what the results mean for whether or not this type of hold can even be broken in the traditional way.
And Frank begins to worry about whether or not the hold can even be broken at all.
Chapter 9: The Ill-Advised London Trip
Summary:
"Ha! Very concise title. Well chosen."
"Thank you! I was quite proud of it."
Chapter Text
Gerard needs to go back to London, so Frank insists on coming with him.
“You will be there to keep watch over me,” he says while packing a bag he bribed Miss Nestor to bring him. “I feel perfectly safe in your care.”
Gerard is frowning at him, his arms crossed over his chest, and his left foot tapping nervously. “I don’t know if that is a good idea.”
“What isn’t a good idea is leaving me here,” Frank promises. “I think I may go insane waiting for you to come back.”
“You really should stay at the castle,” Gerard says, but still makes no move to stop him from packing.
“And we will,” Frank says pointedly. “Once you settle your affairs in London.”
Gerard watches him finish packing before sighing, just enough of a surrender to make a smile break out over Frank’s face.
The reason he needs to go back to London is because he is the only doctor available for those suspected of vampire attacks in the city. With him gone, in the peak season of vampire encounters, the hospital is dangerously exposed to any vampire that might try to use it as a blood bank. Or worse.
Apparently, vampires are most active in the winter. Or, more accurately, more restless. Other supernatural beings, Gerard explains as they begin their carriage ride, have other seasons they are associated with. Elemental supernatural beings like sylphs or nymphs are most active during the spring, werewolves are most active in the fall, and vampires in the winter. Though, he goes on, that doesn’t mean that vampires prefer the winter. Most of them hate it, and that’s why they are at their most restless and most reckless during that time.
“Vampires don’t hibernate,” Gerard says, seemingly content to ramble on and on during the carriage ride. Not that Frank is complaining, of course. Fresh information to fill in gaps in his own knowledge from Gerard? As if he would even think to complain. “We retain a little more of a human aspect in that regard. But during the winter, it can be hard to keep your wits when so much of the world is slowing down and staying in. Vampires are rather more social once turned, I don’t know if the duke ever noted that in his records. It’s why legends and stories paint them as these high-standing people who throw parties and live extravagant lives.”
“Werewolves hibernate differently than elementals, I’ve noticed,” Frank says, peeking out the carriage window curtains. Snow is falling gently around them, covering the road and the trees surrounding it. This trip will be long and frigid.
“No, exactly,” Gerard says, as if Frank has anticipated his next topic. “Werewolves are interesting, I’m learning. Because of this pack bond we’ve been looking into, they don’t all rest at once. They rotate shifts, often three or four at a time are assigned to watch over their territory while the others sleep.”
“A well thought out system,” Frank says absently, watching Gerard’s hands sift through notes.
“A well-oiled machine, if you will,” Gerard says, before sighing and settling back into his side of the carriage, looking across it at Frank. “I really shouldn’t have let you come with me.”
“Now, didn’t we just talk about vampires being restless in the winter?” Frank teases. “It might do me some good to get out and see London again.”
Gerard’s face shifts to thoughtful concern. “You could visit your family…”
Family. Frank’s mind reels. “Oh God, I never sent my letter. My mother must think I’m dead.”
Gerard looks guilty. “I may have… Forged you one.”
Instead of upset or confused, Frank only feels relieved. “Oh. What did you tell her?”
“That you had found a job, and suddenly were being sent on a business trip,” Gerard says. “Saying it out loud sounds a bit unbelievable, but her reply sounded genuine enough. She didn’t come to the hospital after you left at least.”
Frank thinks of his mother’s habit of losing time, her nervousness that she often took holidays to recover from, and thinks that sounds just like his mother. “I think she believed it. And I’ll hopefully get to see her again and do my best to prove it further. Did you specify what kind of job and what type of trip?”
Again, Gerard looks sheepish. “I’m not very creative. I told her you were going to study medicine, that the job was essentially a special residency at a foreign hospital.”
He probably has to do this a lot, Frank thinks. “That sounds perfect. I spent so much time in hospital as a child and adult, that sounds perfectly believable as something I would be interested in. I would read medical journals and charts and treatment plans, anything I could get my hands on when I ran out of novels.”
Gerard takes a moment to process this, then smiles very warmly. “Of course you did.”
And suddenly the carriage ride isn’t so cold, and Frank smiles to himself as Gerard goes back to sorting his notes quietly. Frank watches the snow pile up in the forest and thanks Gerard’s cleverness for saving him from having to make something up later. Then he thanks his own cleverness for finding ways to sneak reading materials while sick with all manner of infections. Then he thanks his mother’s cleverness for always having the foresight to bring him books in hospital, but never too many.
At some point, with the ride taking so long, Gerard sighs and folds his notes back up. “You can rest if you’re tired.”
Frank is tired, staring out at the white snow and blinking, wishing there was a book to read that wasn’t packed in his trunk. He looks toward the other man. “Are you going to rest too?”
As if caught in a lie he didn’t even get to tell, Gerard goes quiet.
“I’ll rest if you do,” Frank says. The mental hand is stuck out fast, waiting.
As if realizing it is there for the first time, Gerard hesitates, first taking the time to probe at the feeling. “How curious.”
Frank raises an eyebrow, the mental hand jutting toward him once more, and finally he feels Gerard begin to take it.
“Alright, fine,” he says, smiling in a puzzled way. “Let’s both rest then.”
London is as smokey as he left it. The memory of this place feels so far away, but the smell of coal factories and horse manure mingled with the sounds of lively people and clattering wheels brings back the memories of why he was content to leave it.
Thankfully, they go straight to the hospital.
Gerard holds the door for him every time they pass through one, then marches ahead of him with purpose, ignoring the relieved, angry, and curious looks he pulls from the hospital staff. Each person seems to come to the conclusion that he is very much in the middle of something, so he isn’t stopped.
Seeing him in the hospital fills Frank with curiosity. He seems to know almost everyone, based on the ways they are looking at him. Yet before Frank was attacked, he hadn’t heard of him at all.
Finally, they make it to Gerard’s office and examination room. The wall with the chains that Frank remembers is void of them, empty white hooks where they would’ve been secured. The bed is made up nicely, tucked against the wall. Gerard’s desk is against the same wall as the door. Frank realizes for the first time that there are no windows.
“You can lay down and rest, if you want,” Gerard says, taking off his coat and immediately setting himself up at the desk to get to work on the pile of documents that have been put there.
Frank wants to argue, they should both be resting after such a long journey, but he feels heavy inside and out. He can’t even voice his thoughts before he is sinking into slumber on the small hospital bed.
There is a blissful few minutes when he wakes again where he thinks about nothing, only watching Gerard’s back, now free of his vest as well, hunched over his desk. Then, questions, thoughts, observations. Just like always.
“Why didn’t the duke stop us from leaving?” he asks.
Gerard jumps, looking over his shoulder at him. He looks exhausted, good Lord. “I may have… influenced his decision.”
Frank stares at him. “How? I thought Sires-?”
“We can’t place holds on one another,” Gerard says with a nod. “But we can uh… Well, I can be very convincing. He’s probably throwing a fit right now. Our influence on one another doesn’t last long.”
Suddenly, the reality of what that means fills Frank’s chest with warmth. Gerard influenced the duke for his sake, so that he could go with to London, so that Frank wouldn’t be upset being left alone.
“Do you normally wake up with questions ready?” Gerard asks. Anyone else would be asking in a less than polite way, but Gerard is honestly curious.
“Usually, yes,” Frank says, sitting up. He frowns at his rumpled clothes. “Unless I’m having a bad day, or I wake up sick.”
“Well, you won’t be waking up sick ever again,” Gerard mutters, turning back to his desk. “I’m almost done with these, and then we can head to my apartment.”
“You have an apartment?” Frank looks around for a clock. “What time is it? How long did I sleep?”
“Only a few hours,” Gerard answers, taking his questions in the opposite order he asked them. “It’s almost dawn, we’ll need to hurry. But I needed to get these dealt with. And yes, I have an apartment not far from here.”
Frank gets up slowly, rubbing his face. Hospital beds are not comfortable, he knows that very well. Gerard’s office bed is no different than the ones he grew up sleeping on. He assumes it’s for any and all newly turned vampires Gerard ends up treating and then sending off to Duke Von Stump.
“I’ve sent a letter to your mother too,” Gerard says suddenly, placing the last document neatly on the pile in his outgoing cubby. “I told her I work with your new boss and that we’re in the city for a short while, and that I was writing to her for you since the trip was so harsh. You’ll have to tell her what you can in person, whatever you want to tell her.”
It’s then that he realizes that he could go the route of total honesty. Vampires are rarely trusted in London, for all the attacks, but it isn’t like Frank expects his mother to disown him for being turned against his will. She would likely cry, very likely worry over him for a while, and then become very sorrowful and quiet and need to take a holiday for her nerves.
Or, of course, he could lie to her. Tell her that he is living and working with a doctor in Germany, learning medicine and being paid handsomely by a duke. He would have to figure out a way to actually send her money, because he is a good son that would never horde his wealth from his mother. And he would have to write her very often either way.
“I have no idea what I should say,” Frank says, running a hand through his hair absently, thinking of the emotional burden it will put on her either way. “My mother’s heart is so fragile, she needs so many breaks from regular life already. Telling her the truth…”
Gerard turns in his chair, looking like he understands very well what he’s thinking. “Often, lying can feel like a necessary evil.”
Frank notes the way his statement holds no emotion, no deeper meaning. He isn’t suggesting he lie, he is only sharing his opinion.
“You have time to think it over, we need to sleep through the day anyway,” Gerard says after a while. “Let’s go, the sun will be out soon.”
Gerard’s apartment is large. Frank hesitates to call it an apartment at all. There is a front room, a living room, a small library, a kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms. Frank’s old apartment was one small room stuffed with everything possible, and a separate bathroom. A doctor’s salary, he assumes, buys more than just nice clothes.
All the curtains are drawn shut and are made from heavy fabric. The light of the dawn is finally crawling through the city by the time they settle in. Gerard impossibly takes the time to cook them both dinner first, making Frank very frustrated. He really should’ve been asleep already. But Frank eats, because he is starving, and then they both retire to the separate bedrooms.
Frank gets a glimpse of the horrifying mess that is Gerard’s room and vows to tidy it up tomorrow when Gerard isn’t looking.
In the end, the easiest thing to do is combine the truth with a lie. Frank tells his mother in person that he was attacked and turned, and that Gerard, in looking after him after this sudden change, decided it would be best to send him to Duke Von Stump’s castle to study medicine with him. He does his best to soothe her fears that wear evident on her face, and the knowledge that he cannot get horribly sick anymore does help her mood, but ultimately the meeting ends in tears anyway.
The meeting had been arranged at the hospital after sundown, and his mother tells him that she had her suspicions when the doctor’s letter insisted upon the timing. In doing his best to make sure she won’t worry, he promises her a wildly high amount of money every month that he still has no idea where from he will find it. And when she leaves, she mutters to herself about needing another holiday.
“I’m sorry,” Gerard says once they’re alone. He stands where he has been the whole meeting, leaning a hip on his desk, arms crossed over his chest. His shoulders are tight and he wears a deep frown. “Involving family is always…”
“Miserable,” Frank says, not really meaning to. He feels tears well up in his eyes, but he presses them out before they can worry the doctor. “It’s better this way, though. The full truth might have finally broken her fragile mind.”
Gerard makes a face, then nods. “It is a hard truth for anyone to accept.”
The way he is watching Frank gives him the impression that the comment is directed at him, not his mother. Taking a breath, Frank manages to give him a small smile. “I’m alright. Do you have work to do?”
Gerard watches him a short while before letting the topic go. “Just filing. We’ve been lucky not to have another attack while I’ve been gone. You can go back to the apartment whenever you like. Or perhaps go to your old apartment to gather your things properly.”
Frank hadn’t even considered it. Though, thinking it through, he had plenty of new clothes at the duke’s castle, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t find all the books he used to have again.
“You must have books there,” Gerard says knowingly, eyeing him.
It’s like the tides. He wants his books, but they’re not really that necessary, right? He can purchase them again. Except, he thinks, for the ones that are annotated and signed. Highly valuable to him or in general. But again, they’re just books, right?
He blinks, staring at the floor. Just books? Just books? “I’m not sure I’m thinking straight.”
Gerard nods like he knows exactly what’s happening. And of course he would, this is his job, after all. “A Sire’s hold is unlike any other. It often interferes with the desires of the vampires under it, and it’s much more disruptive for Thrall. If it seems unimportant to me, then it might start to seem unimportant to you, as well as the opposite.”
Frank stares at him. “Is collecting my books unimportant to you?”
Gerard holds his stare with a carefully neutral face. “I have no opinion on that subject.”
Slowly, still staring at him, Frank begins to feel the very present need to gather his books to take back with him. How could he think that they were just books? Some of those were special editions! Or the only printings in English! Signed, stamped, imported, fully annotated editions by the authors themselves!
“I’m going to gather my things,” Frank says, standing up.
“I’ll just be here doing some filing,” Gerard says as he leaves, still using a neutral tone.
He buys two new trunks to take his books back in with Gerard’s doctor salary. Their carriage driver, a newly hired young man nervous to make a good impression, helps him pack the trunks in the rented carriage. They only had it for the next few days, long enough to take them on the boat and then back to the castle and not get the poor driver and carriage company involved in their business for much longer.
Frank was surprised to hear that the carriage company was the only that rented to vampires. Not because he expected more of them to, but because he was shocked anyone in London would, given the recent attacks. He would hesitate to say it might be because some are becoming more sympathetic toward vampires, because the front pages of every newspaper he has seen since being back in the city would vehemently argue otherwise.
Once his trunks are packed away and the carriage is sent to the docks to be stored for their eventual departure, Frank sets about the streets of late-night London to see what in the city has changed since he has been away.
His parents’ townhome sits vacant and dark. His mother likely left for the country house right after their meeting. He doesn’t blame her, he only wishes he could’ve gone with her.
But then again, he thinks, he would’ve had to leave Gerard behind to do that. And that isn’t an option. Obviously.
The city seems much the same as he left it. He walks about, trying not to linger on the sound of rushing blood beneath women’s laughter, or the smell of the butcher’s shops closing up for the night. Meat used to disgust him, but now the smell entices him more than it should. It is raw, for God’s sake. He shakes his head to try and clear it, shoving through crowds of late-night revelers near a bar and lounge. He realizes his mistake when he is suddenly in a sea of beating hearts and lazy manners.
Anxiety shoots through to his fingertips. He does not want to drink from anyone. But his throat is starting to itch. When was the last time he had real blood? He despised it, but it was impossible to go without it for long. Gerard made them dinner last night with no blood in it, but had he had any before that? Had Gerard? Christ, he should’ve drank at the hospital. Which way was the hospital again?
“Are you alright?” someone asks, taking his arm gently, and it’s a woman, she’s small and clearly drunk, her brown hair pinned artfully and her neck on display and he shakes himself free of her hand and profusely apologizes. “It’s alright, where are you going?”
He starts running, away, away, away from the crowd, because his throat is burning and their hearts are so loud and he is so thirsty.
This is how it happens, he realizes. This is how so many vampires end up in a frenzy. The nightlife of London, bustling and loud, is too much for a thirsty, young vampire. It floods the mind, burns the throat, begs for just one bite. This is why no vampires live in London.
He sprints down an alleyway only to find it ending abruptly, and instead of turning around and risking putting himself back in the view of any wandering human, he claws at the stones and tries to hide himself behind the garbage gathered there. He cannot hurt anyone, he refuses to. If only Gerard were there, he could bring him back to the hospital, he could calm him down and get the air to enter his lungs correctly.
“Frank.”
The panic subsides instantly and relief makes his head spin. He has no idea how he ended up on the ground, staring up at the sky through the narrow alley, but he looks up and sees Gerard’s terrified face. His throat is scratchy and burning and he can’t thank God for Gerard’s timely arrival out loud so he prays in his mind for the first time in seven years.
“I am so sorry,” Gerard says, kneeling down. He fumbles for something in his coat pocket, retrieving a flask and unscrewing it. “I completely forgot.”
Stale and metallic, blood floods his mouth as Gerard tips the flask his way. He’s flipping himself to grasp it frantically before he thinks about it, tipping it back to drain the entire thing as fast as possible. It isn’t fresh and it tastes vaguely like chemicals, but the burning in his throat soothes and when he’s done he can finally breathe.
“I am so sorry,” Gerard says again, his face stricken with guilt.
“You’re pretty absentminded, aren’t you?” Frank breathes out, still clutching the flask tightly in his hand. “You work too long, you get distracted by research, and you’re stubborn about resting.”
Gerard blinks at him. “I suppose that’s a fair assessment of my person, yes.”
“You need a woman in your life, Gerard,” Frank says, laughter rattling his chest as he still tries to even his breathing.
Gerard frowns. “What?”
“Someone to keep you on task,” he says, devolving into giggles. “Good Lord, I feel delirious. What was in this blood?”
Still frowning, Gerard flicks his gaze to the flask, then back to Frank’s face. “Just some rum.”
“Rum?!” Frank’s eyes bulge.
“It keeps it from going bad,” the doctor says, as if it’s obvious. “Don’t you drink?”
“I spent my life in a hospital!” Frank bellows, fresh laughter finding him. “Rum!”
Finally, realizing he is feeling better, Gerard smiles. “Apologies for not warning you, then.”
He helps Frank stand, just as a London policeman shines his light down the alley.
“It’s alright, officer,” Gerard calls before they can be questioned. “Just helping a friend get home.”
The officer looks between them, spotting the flask, and then nods and returns to his patrol.
Thankfully, the rum wares off after a while. Frank has never really drank before, aside from the occasional social event he was well enough to attend. A flute of champaign or a glass of wine is nothing compared to rum.
Despite feeling fine after the flask, Gerard brings home two large bags of blood for them both.
“I’m much better at ignoring my thirst,” Gerard explains. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t also be keeping up on my drinking.”
Frank eyes his bag warily. “Do we need to drink all of this?”
“Not all at once, I will keep the rest in the ice box.”
Frank has never drank from a bag before, so he first asks to watch Gerard do it. It’s odd, because it seems the same as drinking from a human, though with less stable… skin. The plastic bag breaks just as easily, but Gerard has to be careful to keep it from leaking as he drinks. After he’s done, he gives Frank pointers as he drinks from his first blood bag.
And it is disgusting. Frank ruins his shirt and complains of the taste and Gerard regretfully tells him that all blood from bags tastes that way.
“It’s the preservative chemicals,” he says with a sympathetic smile. “It’s vile, isn’t it?”
Frank gags down another mouthful. “I would prefer an animal’s blood over this, and I was a vegetarian.”
That gives the doctor a good chuckle, which helps distract Frank long enough to take one last gulp before his stomach turns at the idea of drinking any more.
Gerard put the bags in the ice box after taping the holes left by their fangs shut. It was when he got to changing his shirt that Frank realizes he feels more himself than he has in a while, and questions come to him in a flurry.
“I’ve never noticed, do our fangs stay the same size all the time?” he asks. “And if I was attacked and drank from, why does there seem to be no bite left behind? Oh, and I only asked about the length of fangs because it seems impossible to leave only two wounds when biting unless the fangs grow, which is odd to me because I haven’t felt mine grow or retract. But again, I’m just curious.”
Gerard is smiling at him, likely a little relieved himself to be hearing Frank’s curiosity again. “They do grow. It’s unconscious, I’m not sure there’s a way to do it on purpose. Evolution or perhaps instinct. And you healed your bite wound from your initial turning. Advanced healing, as I’m sure you know, comes with being a vampire. As does the lack of blood, so if you ever were stabbed or otherwise wounded like that, you could never bleed out.”
“Fascinating,” Frank says. “Wouldn’t it be more evolutionarily beneficial for all our teeth to be as sharp as fangs, though?”
Amused, or perhaps simply pleased, Gerard tilts his head to the side. “How’s that?”
“Well, if the intention is to drain another creature of blood, wouldn’t it be more efficient for all our teeth to be sharp, so that the blood could flow quicker through a larger wound?”
The theoretical seems to stimulate a part of Gerard’s mind, and he makes a face of deep academic thought. “I suppose, if we were our own species, that would make sense. But vampires are always made from humans, as you know. Perhaps vampire biology simply must conform to human biology first when making such changes.”
“And on that topic,” Frank says, his mind hurtling down a new path. “What was the first vampire? Were they their own species? Did they infect humanity with something, or did a human genetic defect cause the first case of vampirism? And if one or the other is true, why is it possible for it only to be passed through a bite? And clearly only if it’s desired to be passed, since Duke Von Stump told me briefly about the man I’d fed on during my starvation, that he healed up nicely and was never turned.”
Gerard watches Frank begin to pace the apartment, incapable of stopping his racing thoughts on the genetic and biological differences between humans and vampires.
“And if it’s a choice, does that mean there is some biological mechanism for turning? A venom of some kind? Perhaps a toxin released from underneath the fangs? Or the saliva?”
“The current theory is something like that,” Gerard chimes in, watching him fondly from his place on the sofa. “Though, there has yet to be any proof of any kind of place for venom or toxin to come from. We’ve never discovered any sort of stores of venom in the body of a vampire.”
Frank turns to him with a renewed light of intrigue in his eyes. “So we can die, then?”
“Of course we can,” Gerard says with a patient nod. “Burning in the sun or fire, freezing in the cold. We can’t die of blood loss, but a stake to the heart is a violent and effective end for any vampire, as fiction would suggest.”
A shiver runs up Frank’s body. The idea of being staked under normal circumstances is an awful one. The idea that it could end his newly sturdy life as fast as a bullet makes him wary of any and all wood in the room. “I see.”
“There have only been a few vampires I’ve been able to autopsy,” Gerard goes on, freely offering information Frank wouldn’t have any idea how to ask for. “The families of most don’t want their bodies further destroyed. Many are still extremely religious, I’m sure you know.”
Frank nods. He used to be.
“What I found after removing their fangs was roots and gums, like any other human tooth. The fang was longer, of course, but there was nothing behind or below it.”
Momentarily disgusted by the image, Frank remembers why he brought it up. “So no sacs of venom, then.”
“Very unlikely,” Gerard agrees. “Saliva is my prevailing theory, but that wouldn’t explain it all, since saliva must make its way into the bite wound.”
“Surely,” Frank says with a nod. “Biting someone and not secreting anything wouldn’t make sense. I remember my mouth watering when I was starving. It had to have entered the wound.”
“Which brings us back to square one,” Gerard sighs. “As usual with vampire research.”
They talk in circles for a while, Frank proposing ideas and Gerard offering his knowledge on the topics. But obviously, talking yields only so many results. There are some things you can only learn by observing or experimenting.
When the conversation slips, and Frank begins to busy himself with tidying Gerard’s room while he’s distracted with letters he’s received while being away, Frank thinks of yet another of his endless questions. He waits until Gerard’s room is in an agreeable state before going back to the living room to ask his question.
“Does the duke need a research assistant?” Frank asks immediately.
Gerard looks up from his reply letter that he was in the middle of writing and blinks at him. “Were you in my room?”
“It was a dreadful mess,” Frank explains.
“He’s always in need of some kind of help,” Gerard answers finally, eyes jumping to his bedroom door. “What did you move?”
“I put your clothes in the basket to be washed, made your bed, and generally made sure your surfaces weren’t completely covered with books and research materials.” Frank shakes his head with a huff. “You ought to leave autopsy notes somewhere less likely to be found by a maid.”
“I don’t have a maid,” Gerard says. “And you are not a maid. You don’t need to do that.”
“I wanted to,” Frank insists, knowing it is true.
“But you might just be-” Gerard starts, making a complicated expression.
Frank cuts him off. “No, I’m not. Despite the absolutely disgusting flavor, the blood seems to have cleared my head quite a bit. If my rambling wasn’t proof enough, my utter disdain for a mess has returned, as well as my penchant for getting myself into trouble. Do you think the duke would accept me as a research assistant? So that I might actually get to send my mother money every month?”
Once again, Gerard blinks at him a while before answering. “We’ll have to ask him when we return. The last person he hired to work with him was my brother.”
The mention of Gerard’s brother brings a flood of old questions to the forefront of his mind. “Oh yes, your brother. What was his aversion to being around you when you came to the castle? I saw him barely once after you arrived.”
Looking at Gerard now feels the same as looking at the duke’s high castle walls. As if he wasn’t the one to bring his brother up. “He is very busy with his work for the duke, that’s all.”
Frank stares, incredulous, because he is an Intellectual. Thrall, sure, but an Intellectual first. He is smart enough to figure out that someone has to be lying to him. Either Mr. Way isn’t a Blue vampire, he doesn’t actually work for the duke, or the other Sire is secretly Mr. Toro, which would make no sense.
“Why does everyone keep thinking they can lie to me?” Frank says out loud, not at all meaning to. But it has begun to bother him. The duke not telling him about certain things, Gerard hiding things from him, the possibility of Mr. Way lying to his face with absolute confidence — which in retrospect makes perfect sense if he is a Sire, good Lord — all the way back to no one being forthcoming with their information from the outset of this whole ordeal.
Gerard seems to ripple with the wave of Frank’s frustration, getting up and abandoning his letter. “I don’t mean to lie to you, Frank, it’s just that my brother is very secretive-”
“He’s the other Sire, isn’t he?” Frank says, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. “Why would he lie like that? Why wouldn’t he just-?”
“He’s a Nobilis Sire,” Gerard says suddenly, quieting the shorter man. His face is rather grim. “Do you remember the definition of that subtype?”
Frank sifts through the shelves in his mind. When he comes to the information he is looking for, he frowns. “Oh.”
“Maybe you can understand now, why he might not be willing to impart that information on a Thrall still training to break holds?”
Vampirica Sire, Nobilis, Frank recalls.
Also known as Vampirica Overseer, this subtype is the typical archetype observed in Vampirica Sire. The Nobilis has previous been named for different rankings of English noblemen, but with each choice of title the whole population of Nobilis that purchases these volumes for their personal education has written countless letters of complaints that the rank “is not high enough” for them. And so, I have changed the naming to be more inclusive to those of higher (or lower) status.
Nobilis is the subtype most often seen in fiction that depicts Vampirica as rich, polite, stately, and of high social status. The desire or nature of Nobilis is to preside over a population or organization. They feel most comfortable in large, expensive homes, with many servants and wards. They typically abide by law, but not because they believe they are subject to it. They abide simply because it would be a hassle not to. The ultimate goal of Nobilis is to live comfortably while being in charge of many and much, regardless of how well they actually manage it all.
As with most Sires, Nobilis is especially attracted to the power afforded to them by Thrall. As Thrall are especially weak to holds from Vampirica Sire, so too is Nobilis drawn to the “weakness of mind of the Thrall” (forgive the wording, this is as stated by a colleague, and will be changed to more sympathetic wording in the next edition of this volume).
Frank blinks, looks up at Gerard, then looks down again.
“He was likely trying to be polite,” Gerard says quietly.
“He knows I prefer to know things as they are,” Frank argues weakly.
With a sigh, Gerard sits back down. “I’m sure he will take whatever punishment you set upon him.”
Frank lets him get back to writing his letter, at least for a while, before the next burning question sears through his throat. “Is that why he wasn’t around when you came to the castle?”
“Yes,” Gerard says without looking up. “We fight when we’re around one another too long. Not even the duke can calm us.”
The thought makes Frank very sad. “I’m sorry I pushed.”
“It’s alright,” Gerard says, finally looking at him with this calm, resigned smile. “It’s in your nature.”
When they finally depart London, gathering their trunks onto the boat in the darkness of the recent sunset, Frank begins to tire of the endless questions his brain conjures. What does it matter who the colleague of the duke’s mentioned in that note on the Nobilis Sire was? It couldn’t have been Gerard, so what does it matter? But with his stomach full of blood, having finished his grossly chemical bag just before they left, he can feel his nature grow more robust, and as such it began to press against the need for mental silence he felt around Gerard.
Once on the German shores, and quickly packed into the carriage, Frank tucks himself in the corner of the bench with one of his books from home. It is a special edition of collected fiction works once published in a London magazine. His mind was apt to wander unless it had a steady stream of words to read, a linear string of thought to follow laid out before him. Piecing together a story is always so much easier than piecing together his own thoughts.
Gerard doesn’t busy himself at all during the carriage ride back to the castle, staring unseeing out the window, his expression blank and tired. He always looked tired, Frank is finding. He wonders if the doctor ever truly gets time to rest.
It still snows relentlessly outside, dead vegetation and absent animals painting the world gray as can be. For a few moments, Frank joins Gerard’s gaze out the window, watching snow fall heavy on the well-trodden path. The poor driver must be freezing.
“Who will take care of any new victims?” Frank curses himself for not distracting himself with his book before he could help speaking his mind.
Gerard blinks, looking toward him like he’d just remembered where he was. “At the hospital? There is a small team of people I have trained for such an occasion, but reports of attacks have begun to go down.”
“That’s a relief,” Frank says, trying his hardest to refocus on his book and stop being so curious.
“It is. Though, if an attack happens, I’ve agreed to take the first available boat back to London,” Gerard says, somewhat absentmindedly. “As I’m the only Asclepia our little organization knows of, I’m the only one safe for newly turned vampires.”
Frank blinks at the pages of his book. “You wouldn’t send another Sire, they aren’t likely to ignore the urge to control and gain power.”
“Precisely.” Gerard yawns into the cuff of his jacket. “Apologies, I don’t know why I’m so exhausted.”
“You work yourself too much,” Frank says quietly, still trying to get the words on the page to take his attention back.
“I suppose I must.”
The silence falls around them again, and Frank finally gets the story back. It’s the only thing he can do to stop himself from feeling like he must wait on every word from the other man. Absently, while reading, he realizes this is the effect of the hold. This is why it is important to break it. Even as that butts up against his desire to leave it there, he realizes the necessity of removing it. If it wasn’t there, he would be able to read freely and not feel as though there was something wrong with the action. As well, he might even be able to fill their ride with chatter and feel comfortable doing so, rather than wishing to hold Gerard’s attention. He used to love sharing and gaining new opinions and thoughts. Now, he wishes for his brain to be occupied to quiet that noise.
Yes, he realizes, looking up at Gerard’s slack, sleeping face. He needs to break his hold.
Chapter 10: On Force
Summary:
"Not the Newtonian kind, though I suppose the concept is similar..."
"What are you muttering about over there?"
"Nothing, just taking some notes."
Chapter Text
“You will never do such a thing again,” the duke thunders, his voice bellowing all the way to the Blue Room. Frank stutters in pouring his tea, glancing at Mr. Toro warily.
“He needed to get his affairs settled,” Gerard’s quieter voice argues. “I know it was dangerous, but I wouldn’t have let anything happen to him.”
“You both still don’t fully understand the nature of this bond, how could you be so reckless?”
“And you so heartless?” Gerard shouts back suddenly. “He would have been distraught left here without me!”
“Is that you, Gerard, or the bond? Is that you, or the hold he seems to have on you?”
The duke’s words echo though the minds of everyone in the Blue Room. Frank sips his tea to hide his flushing face. Mr. Toro clears his throat, offering Mr. Urie a slice of cake, which he takes silently.
At the pianoforte, Miss Nestor sits with her hands hovering over the keys, knowing she should be drowning out the argument but far too curious to do so. Frank doesn’t blame her.
“We are back and safe,” Gerard’s voice is hushed once more, and Frank tilts his head to try and hear better. The others ignore his shamelessness. “That’s the end of it.”
“No, the end of it is that it will never happen again,” the duke huffs, and his steps echo away from the Blue Room.
The second they hear Gerard’s footsteps approach, they all return to their normal activities in an attempt to seem innocently oblivious to the uproarious disagreement that had just taken place. Miss Nestor began playing a light, easy tune. Mr. Toro asks Mr. Urie about how his new mansion in Spain is coming along. And Frank, well, all he can do is reach for the nearest book and pretend like he can read upside-down, apparently.
Gerard steps quietly into the room and sees him flipping the book around. Despite knowing what it means, he smiles and laughs to himself. Frank gives him a guilty smile.
“What are we drinking?” Gerard asks, sitting in the chair next to Frank.
“Imported chai, from India,” Mr. Toro supplies, pouring the doctor a cup.
“Wonderful,” Gerard murmurs over the steaming drink. “I do prefer the spiced teas over the herbal.”
“I would assume you would prefer anything black,” Mr. Urie says, somewhat teasingly. “As a doctor, I’m sure you spend many nights burning the candle at both ends.”
“You’re not incorrect,” Gerard chuckles. He sips his tea and sighs. He glances at Frank. “I’ve been trying to take better care of myself lately, though. Being at the castle and not being needed in London gives me the chance to finally relax for once.”
“That’s lucky,” Mr. Toro says. “Cake?”
“I’m not much a fan for sweets, but thank you.”
Frank pretends to read his book until Gerard’s hand finds his shoulder.
“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks.
“Alright,” Frank answers.
He’s been told to keep a book on him all the time, to try and feed his curiosity whenever he can. It’s odd that it’s become hard to do, but Frank agreed that he needs to keep some tether to his nature. He hasn’t shared his thoughts from the carriage ride over, not wanting to worry anyone.
“How’s your book?” Gerard asks. The question stirs nothing, and Frank frowns.
“Not very engaging,” he says, a sort of code, and Gerard frowns too.
“I can find you another to try?”
Despite not caring if he does, Frank stands. “I’ll go, you enjoy your tea.”
After reluctantly agreeing, Gerard allows Frank to leave, turning his attention back to Mr. Urie and his prattle of his new mansion.
In the halls, Frank feels an oppressive air. He is content to assume it’s the lingering heaviness of the duke’s argument with Gerard. Another bad sign, he thinks with a sigh.
The library is dark, looking rather abandoned since he’s been gone, and he wonders how often the other residents visit it without him. Mr. Urie rarely seems to care for learning and books, with the exception of a few popular works of fiction. Frank assumes he reads them for the ability to say he’s read them, though. Mr. Toro doesn’t much care for books until Frank begins to talk to him about them. He always says he should be reading more, that he would like to, but never gets around to it. Miss Nestor is too busy to read, constantly acting as something close to the duke’s personal (and only) maid. Miss Ballato rarely leaves her stark white room. As for the other residents, the ones currently hibernating, Frank wonders who among them might have any interest in learning or books, and whether he might get along with them.
Realizing he feels that hopeful buzz of desire for friendship, for kinship really, he feels himself release the tension in his shoulders and neck. His nature is still there, still present, still swirling in the center of him. It gets so easily muddied by Gerard’s mere presence, which aggravates him more than saddens him. When Gerard is around, he rarely thinks of knowledge and learning unless he is running on a full stomach of freshly drank blood.
Before he realizes it, he is writing these things down, taking research notes of his own experiences under the doctor’s hold and with this strange bond they share. He takes a whole page of notes before settling on a general title that allows for ambiguity. An Account.
After five days back in the castle, the snow finally ceases to fall for the third day in a row. The duke, recently in a much better mood, declares that spring is in sight, and that they will all start to feel less morose and restless in the coming month.
Frank spends his mornings having breakfast in the Blue Room with Gerard, Mr. Toro, and Mr. Urie. Miss Nestor sometimes joins them, though often she is busy with something else. Miss Ballato has shared only one meal with them in five days’ time, during which she complained of a headache and had to leave soon after arriving.
With the promise of spring having been spoken, though still not felt, Frank felt more restless than he had in the months prior. He wished for the frost to melt, for the rest of the castle to become lively as he’d been promised it would. And today is no different.
“You seem agitated,” Gerard observes from the library table, a teacup in one hand and a book in the other.
Frank, who is angrily reorganizing the duke’s English shelves to actually reflect the English alphabet, slams another book into its rightful slot. “Really?”
Gerard wisely sips his tea, saying nothing.
“I swear he shelved these at random,” Frank mutters, his voice tight. Suddenly, he drops a book by accident, the pages bending just as painful as the cover hitting his foot. He lets out a shout of frustration, fury taking him over, and hurls the book across the library. To his horror, the book’s corner sticks into the wall.
Still wise, Gerard only watches with wide eyes.
This outburst feels as though it pulls the anger to the surface, which brings with it tears of frustration. Frank falls back against the bookshelf, shoving his palms into his eyes and trying to squeeze the tears from them. “God, take this feeling away from me…”
He didn’t mean it as a prayer, but Gerard mutters one himself.
They stay in the tense silence of the aftermath of that outburst, Frank feeling more and more terrible by the moment. “The duke will be so cross,” he mutters.
“He will understand,” Gerard says softly. “The end of winter is the hardest.”
Frank wipes his nose of tears, looking to the doctor’s kind, worried face.
“You didn’t ruin it, did you?” Gerard asks gently, eyeing the book stuck in the wall.
A laugh vaults from his chest, and he covers his eyes once again. “Nothing a few days of pressing the pages flat can’t fix, I’m sure…”
Gerard pats the table, and Frank sits with his eyes still covered. He then spreads out on the surface, pressing his face into the thickly lacquered wood, arms over his head, and sighs deeply.
“Spring will bring with it the calm excitement of possibility,” Gerard says. His voice is so soft and melodic, Frank could fall asleep to it if he weren’t so wound up. “The end of winter brings the anxiety of endings.”
“How are you so unaffected?” Frank asks the table, his lips dragging across the grains. He doesn’t even care that it must be a filthy surface, doesn’t care in the slightest because he is apparently immune to sickness now.
“I’m not unaffected,” Gerard says. Then he quiets for a moment, before sighing. “Alright, it gets easier with time. The more years you spend dealing with it, the easier it gets.”
“Wonderful.”
“But that’s just how I know the duke will understand, about the wall,” Gerard goes on. “It’s your first year, he will understand.”
Frank lets the silence calm his nerves for a while. The crackling of the fire, the clinking of Gerard’s teacup as he takes sip after sip, the eventual sound of the book falling from the wall. For a very quick moment, he thinks of a question, but by the time he lifts his head to ask it, it has vanished from his mind. Gerard stares expectantly at his expression, knowing how he looks when he’s curious, then frowns at the frustration that replaces it.
“I can’t even keep up with my own thoughts,” Frank grumbles, shoving himself standing. The loss of his curiosity enrages him suddenly, making him want to throw more books.
“Try to be patient with yourself,” Gerard says, risking becoming the target of his rage. “You might try a cool bath? Or a walk through the halls to get your energy out?”
The suggestions both sound good, so he agrees to take a long walk and then soak in frigid water. It almost helps for ten whole minutes before the impatience, the restlessness, overtakes him once more. Gerard follows him everywhere he goes, tidying up the castle however he can and shooing Miss Nestor away when she gets in his way. Gerard apologizes for him at every turn, and Frank doesn’t even have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed for it.
The closer spring got, the more agitated and restless Frank became, until finally he began deep cleaning his entire bath and dressing rooms just to do something. Gerard comes by to check on him, getting pointedly ignored every time, until finally the first bit of melt reaches the mountain.
Frank opens his eyes on the first evening of the melt, hours before sundown, and finally feels an overwhelming release of energy. The anxiety has seeped out of him during his sleep and has been replaced with a gentle, slow calm. For the first time since he first got acquainted with the castle, Frank spends his morning in bed with tea Miss Nester brings him and reads a handful of chapters of a poetry collection. Then, further proving his agitation has finally left him, he spends the next hour in the bath simply resting.
By the time he makes his way to the Blue Room, he is feeling the brightness of potential awaiting him, the artificial light from the windows shining across his face as he sits at the pianoforte, and begins to play his scales with a smile on his face.
Gerard comes to the Blue Room long after this, papers in his hands and under his arm, sitting with Mr. Toro and Mr. Urie, who both seem content to listen to Frank’s scales instead of complaining that he won’t play a real song. Gerard shoves the papers into the chair he’s in, pouring himself tea and taking a bite of a teacake.
“You’ve gotten quite good at those,” he says over his shoulder, his mouth half full.
Frank turns his easy smile his way. “Thank you.”
The smile, or perhaps Frank’s sudden change in mood, or perhaps it’s nothing at all, causes Gerard to pause his chewing and stare at him. Frank goes back to his playing, easily playing them to a beat to make them sound a little more musical, until Miss Nestor enters the room and exclaims in excitement.
“Oh yes!” she gasps, running to his side. “Yes, you’ve done so well!”
Frank stops immediately, smiling at her. “Do you think you can teach me the song now?”
“Yes, yes,” she says, shuffling in next to him on the bench. “Let me just think of how I ought to start…”
Frank can feel Gerard watching them from across the room, but he is so taken with excitement for finally getting to learn the melody and play the song that he can’t be bothered by what it might mean. If it means anything, which it might not.
“Spring has lightened his spirit considerably,” the duke says, eyeing the patch of slightly lighter paint on the library wall.
Gerard would agree, Frank’s spirit has lifted, but he, however, has begun to get into a very dower mood that he can’t seem to find his way out of. The duke, noticing this, called him to chat in the library, where now Frank was organizing the English shelves back to their original alphabetization. He is using it as a chance to learn the German alphabet, which isn’t so different from the English one save for a few extra letters.
Frank is clearly unaware of their conversation, floating on his good mood. Gerard wishes he could feel the same lightness, but oddly the spring has brought a sense of foreboding.
“Doctor,” the duke says, bringing Gerard’s awareness back to himself, sitting across from the pompously dressed man. “Are you feeling alright?”
The question almost makes him laugh before he reigns in the impulse. “Just wondering when our hibernating friends will start to wake, that’s all. I’m curious to see if the change in the season might help Fr- Mr. Iero, rather, reach a point where he might finally break my hold.”
Where usually Frank’s ears might perk up, making him turn his head and peek at them, giving himself away as eavesdropping on their conversation, he instead starts humming that piano melody to himself as he moves the books on the shelf. Something about that, his not noticing, makes Gerard feel something he doesn’t understand.
Anger.
“I’m sure the season’s change will be beneficial,” the duke says brightly, missing this entire reaction completely. “I’ve never seen a Sire’s hold on a Thrall last past the summer.”
Ignoring the way he wanted to challenge whether he could hold it for longer, Gerard smiled at his old friend. “Yes, surely it will help him break it.”
Weeks, it took weeks for the grounds to experience enough melt for Frank to finally go outside into the gardens. The duke says the elementals in the plants will likely stay inside until the temperature drops considerably, but the weather is perfect for Frank to start exploring.
So, explore he does, taking a shoulder bag full of books with him as he ventures out into the gardens just after sundown.
The gardens in the back corner of the castle, with tall walls in the distance to keep them from the edge of the mountain, are surely full of beautiful life in the middays of summer. Frank walks through the paths, around beds of flowers and bushes he can see through, imagining them teeming with warmth and bugs, breeding grounds for all sorts of life. The image makes him a bit sad, because he remembers he won’t be able to spend much time in them in the summer. But the potential of all that beauty, even seeing it in the low light of dusk, excites him.
He turns down many corners in the high hedges, finally gasping as he comes to a cove carved out of rose bushes, all dead and thorny, curling protectively over a large marble gazebo with an iron lattice roof and a trio of stone benches underneath.
“What a gorgeous place to waste time,” Frank murmurs, running his fingers over the gray marble, tracing the line of a vein of some dark stone, then gazing up at the iron latticework. It twists and curves delicately, creating soft roses out of the harsh material, right in front of where they might bloom when the mountain becomes warmer.
He sits on one bench, satisfied despite the uncomfortable hardness, and digs around in his bag to find a suitable novel for the space. Suddenly, he is fully invested in drowning himself in the aesthetics of the place, needing to find just the right book that one would obviously be reading in a space such as this. Finally, he pulls out a poetry collection by a British author, Lyrical Ballads by William Wordsworth, and he thinks, yes, this is the one.
So when Gerard finds him tucked against a column, legs relaxed out in front of him, book in his lap, he simply must take a moment to feel all the work he put in to looking so completely in his element.
Frank doesn’t even look up until he speaks. “I thought I might find you out here. The snow finally all has melted, and the weather is just right.”
Frank smiles at him. “Have you spent much time out here before?”
“Regrettably not.” Gerard steps into the gazebo, looking up and around. “It’s quite the hiding place.”
“It’s just become my favorite place,” Frank says, hugging his book to his chest without noticing it. He feels so comfortable in the gazebo, he wonders if others might use it when they come out of hibernation. “How many elementals live in the gardens?”
Gerard shakes his head slightly when he answers; “Last I knew, only three. But it sounds like the duke gave a few more refuge while I was away dealing with the vampire attacks in London.”
“How exciting,” Frank says softly, getting up and brushing off his pants. “I can’t wait to meet them all. Will the werewolves be coming out of hibernation soon?”
“Some already are,” Gerard says. “Their process is much slower than you’ll find the elementals’ is.”
“Fascinating,” Frank says excitedly, tucking his book in his discarded bag. “What made you come look for me?”
“I was wondering if you might try again today,” Gerard says, keeping his tone light and his eyes occupied on the nearest column.
Something serious settles over Frank’s features, and Gerard hates himself for putting it there. “Oh. I suppose I should…”
“If you don’t want to-”
“I do,” Frank says quickly, though rather curt. He sits on one of the three stone benches and sets his face in serious determination.
Gerard sits on the one opposite him, allowing there to be several feet of space between them.
For a while, they only stare at one another. Gerard, reluctant to start. Frank, impatient to get through with failing his test.
They’ve tried this many times. Small tests of will that don’t go anywhere near Frank’s nature anymore. Simple requests that Frank tries so hard to prepare to ask his way out of, all yielding the same result. Failure.
“Frank,” Gerard says, stealing any of his remaining attention in an instant.
“Yes?”
“Could you tell me every word of the book you were just reading?”
This was one of Gerard’s helpless attempts at skirting his hold entirely, to try and help him break it by lack of ability to carry the command out. But Frank has too sharp a memory when not distorted by a hold or forced into the depths of his mind by a command. He instantly begins speaking, going through the poems word for word, even telling him where stanzas began and ended. A few minutes in, Gerard mentally drops the command entirely, and Frank’s words stutter to a stop.
They once again stare at one another, until Frank says, “Is that it, then?”
Instead of answering, or putting on a brave show, Gerard leans forward to hold his head in his hands and lets loose a deep sigh. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to hurt you, I am so terrified of making that mistake again…”
Frank waits a good while, letting Gerard wallow in self pity, before speaking up. “I believe you wouldn’t make it again.”
“But I don’t want to be given the chance,” Gerard bemoans. “I refuse to hurt you, I can’t bring myself to think of it.”
“Is there room for logic?” Frank asks carefully. “Perhaps you just need to find a way to justify the means, because it will help in the end. It will help to heal my mind in the long run.”
Gerard looks up at him, his face already pained at the thought.
“Sometimes limbs need to be removed,” Frank says, not looking at him. “In order to stop infection from spreading.”
Gerard opens his mouth to argue, likely to point out the recent invention and implementation of antibiotic drugs, but Frank continues before he can.
“Sometimes a bone needs to be broken again to put it back in place,” he says, raising his voice. “And that hurts. But only in that pain, only when that bone is broken again, can it begin to heal properly. Everything else is temporary and, in a way, harmful. Much like putting a hold on me in the first place, to protect me from more nefariously minded Sires.”
His reasoning fills Gerard’s gut with stones. Because he is right, and he hates the idea of needing to push him, to hurt him in any way.
“So let us get serious about this,” Frank says, standing up.
“What do you-?” Gerard is asking, but he is suddenly crowded by Frank getting very, very close to him, fist raised, seemingly straining against his common sense. “What are you doing?”
Frank groans as he forces his fist forward, and then it snaps forward and clips Gerard’s jaw, and he stumbles off the bench.
“What-?!” Gerard holds his jaw, staring at the shorter man with wide eyes. “Are you completely-”
“Insane?” Frank finishes, panting from the effort of simply forcing himself to hurt the Sire that holds him. He then lunges for Gerard.
“Stop!” Gerard shouts, more a plea than a command, but it causes Frank’s muscles to lock up nonetheless. Gerard backs himself against a column and stares at the extremely uncomfortable contortion Frank is held in.
He is trying so, so hard. He can see it in his eyes, the fire there that burns him from inside. Gerard stares into those flames, willing them to burn away the hold altogether. Finally he understands Frank’s completely irrational actions. He begs silently for the hold to break, for Frank to finally find that strength and wield it.
But then, Frank’s eyes are streaming with tears, and he is making pained noises, and Gerard releases him from the command. He has to catch him by the shoulders to keep him from collapsing.
Despite feeling awful, horrible, scraping against the inside of his chest for seemingly hurting him again, Gerard holds him up and says, “I think you’re onto something.”
And so began Frank’s repeated attempts at random, impulse-driven attacks on his Sire. Despite being fully filled in, the duke always comes running to make sure no one gets hurt. And after weeks, after repeated chances where Frank has gotten a book slapped across Gerard’s cheek or poured tea on his legs, there has been no progress beyond the initial revolts.
So they are taking a break.
Today, Frank sits at the pianoforte, practicing his part in the song he is still learning, though the melody sounds far too melancholy and the notes too hardly pressed. Gerard sits on the sofa next to the instruments, lying on his back, face covered with his notes on the past few weeks.
And on the other side of the room, the other vampiric residents of the castle cast pitying glances their way as they talk amongst themselves.
“Must we spend the day sulking inside?” Miss Nestor suddenly asks Frank, putting her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Let us take a walk in the garden. It’s been getting warmer, you know, we might be able to meet someone new.”
The idea is somewhat appealing, so he gets up to follow her. Gerard does not stir under his papers, but he is not asleep. The deep sigh as the door shuts can be heard even through the door.
Though spring is nearly arrived, the halls are still quiet. Frank wonders if there will ever be more noise and ruckus than the noise and ruckus he manages to cause.
“You know,” Miss Nestor says quietly, gently taking his hand. “I personally think this plan may end up working. Eventually.”
“Weeks of no progress may suggest otherwise,” he mutters.
“Maybe. But it may just be chipping away at the ice,” she says. She holds his hand between hers, walking with their hands at her side. “One day, you may finally crack the whole of it, and you might finally get through the hold entirely. The only way to know is to keep trying.”
Keep trying, he tells himself. It would be so much easier to just find a way to convince Gerard that they should leave the hold there. Or something. The process of breaking it already feels as though it is more trouble than it’s worth.
Though, he reasons with himself, what is full control over oneself truly worth? Can anyone put a price on personal autonomy? The right to think freely? The ability to disobey? It makes him think of the teachings of the church, how the conversations around obedience never sat right with him. Not because his parents or the priests having power over him felt wrong, but because the conversation was always to simply trust those older or more powerful than you. To believe when they say they know better, to believe what they say is true, because you respect them. That was before Frank learned that respect is earned.
Respect is earned, he reminds himself. Why does he respect the doctor? Why does he respect the duke? Mr. Toro? Miss Nestor? Mr. Urie, even? He respects them because they have been kind to him, have helped him. The only thing the duke wants is for Frank to have all his mind back in his power. The doctor wants the same. Mr. Toro realized his Intellectual tendencies before even he did. Mr. Urie went to all that trouble sifting through dusty records looking for answers for him. Miss Nestor makes and brings his breakfast every morning, pulls his curtains and draws his baths, accompanies him when he asks, and teaches him the pianoforte.
But respect does not precede obedience. You do not follow someone’s requests simply because you respect them. Listening to the orders of someone else requires one of few things, in Frank’s mind. One is a very good reason. Should someone get injured, and a person you do not know tells you to call for an ambulance, it would only be the right thing to do to listen. Another is a previous mutual agreement, such as employer and employee agreeing that you may take a long holiday, but only if you forgo one of your year’s bonuses. Lastly, and most peculiarly, Frank believes that obeying an order in the name of curiosity is justified. Say the duke asks him to stay outside in the cold for as long as he can stand it before coming back in. Frank might take him up on the request, simply in the name of research. How long can a vampire stay out in the cold of their own volition?
Though that is hardly peculiar, he thinks now, following Miss Nestor into the gardens. He is an Intellectual, he tells himself again. It’s only natural for him to want to do things in the name of science, of learning, of knowing.
“You are quite up in your thoughts, aren’t you?” Miss Nestor says lightly, smiling under her veil.
“It has been a long week.” Frank’s voice feels far off, because he is paying so much attention to the garden.
He hadn’t realized it was blooming so much already. The various plants and flowers around the garden are getting their green back, lifting from where they’d wilted under the snow. The rose bushes were beginning to find their color again, their leaves. Perhaps by summer they will be blooming with flowers. Though, some of the trees, the names of which he does not know, are already blooming. Bright pink flowers, petals wide and happy in the spring night. He wishes he could see them in the sunlight.
“Oh, look there!” Miss Nestor exclaims, gripping his arm. “A nymph!”
Frank spots them hiding against a tree, deep green eyes peering at them from under choppily cut green bangs. She moves to hide further, not liking being seen, it seems.
“I think we scared her,” Frank says quietly.
“I’m sorry, love,” Miss Nestor calls. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s been so terribly long since I saw you, I’ve forgotten your name entirely.”
Frank wants to ask why that would be, seeing as it sounds like Miss Nestor has been at the castle for a very long time. When the nymph, a dryad to be precise, slowly steps out from behind the tree, he concludes that it must be because the dryad is the newer party. She seems timid and wary, glancing between them.
“Hayley,” the dryad says. Her voice sounds like scraping bark from a tree’s branches, rough but thin and a bit whispery.
“Ah yes, forgive me for forgetting,” Miss Nestor says. “This is Mr. Iero. He is a new vampire who has come to live here, at least for now.”
Hayley the dryad, with her wide, unsure eyes, her rather short tunic of a green dress, her bare feet and hands, makes no move to welcome him or say anything at all.
“I’m glad to finally meet someone to whom I can congratulate on the beauty of this garden,” Frank says, feeling his own nerves pull unnecessarily long sentences from his chest. “You must live in one of these beautiful trees.”
“I am one of these trees,” she says, somewhat harshly.
Frank blinks. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t been able to learn very much about nymphs. Which one are you?”
She points to the nearest tall, beautiful, blooming tree. The one she was hiding behind is further back, and Frank wonders who that tree is.
“It’s lovely,” Frank says, desperately hoping he isn’t committing another faux pas.
“Thanks,” Miss Hayley says, though he isn’t sure that’s what she would want to be called. “You drink blood?”
Frank blinks again. “Yes. I don’t really like to, though.”
She cocks her head. “Really?”
Frank nods. “I only forget the taste when I’m very hungry. The metallic tang and thickness is rather unsettling.”
She nods, intrigued. “What else do you eat then?”
“Regular food,” he says. “Though I’m partial to vegetables, not meats.”
She smirks slightly. “Oh?”
His eyes widen. “I-I would never eat a nymph though! Not on purpose, of course. I don’t think any of the vegetables I’ve eaten thus far have been nymphs.”
She is smiling at him.
“Nymphs cannot be vegetables, can they?” he asks.
“No, they cannot,” she says, laughing quietly. “Sorry. I like to tease people sometimes.”
“It’s fine,” he says, tension leaving his shoulders. “I’m just relieved I won’t have to change my diet more than I already have.”
“Has no one else woken up yet?” Miss Nestor asks. She has been craning her neck to look around at the other trees and rose bushes. “The pond has surely melted already, is anyone awake there yet?”
“Not that I know of,” Miss Hayley says, shaking her head. “I’ve been trying to wake everyone up out here on our side, but so far it’s just me.”
“I can’t wait to meet everyone,” Frank says.
“You likely won’t see many of us out at night,” she warns. “I’m a bit nocturnal, but not many of us are. You might catch us around dusk and dawn if you’re brave enough.”
He considers himself rather brave. “I hope I can meet you all.”
She considers him for a moment before giving him another genuine smile. “I hope so too.”
He speaks his mind before he can consider how it might sound. “I’m so thankful to meet someone’s whole face.”
She laughs abruptly, and the sound is loud and boisterous. “What in the hell?”
His face gets warm but he laughs too. “I don’t know if you understand vampire types, but I’m what they call a Thrall. If I look into another vampire’s eyes, I feel compelled to obey them. So every vampire in the castle is veiled for my sake until I can bolster my ability to resist that compulsion.”
As he speaks, her face goes from light amusement to tight concern. Something else in her face sits heavy, just above her chest. It almost looks like knowing.
“I’m just thankful to see another’s full face when meeting them for once,” he says, memorizing the shape of her jaw and cheekbones against her bright green eyes. Both the whites and the irises are green, deep and gem-like. Her short hair is green as well, though the tips appear to be lighter, and slightly yellow-tinted. He wonders if that is natural or a sign of some kind of illness in her tree. Or in herself, rather.
“I’m very sorry you were dealt such a sordid lot in life,” Miss Hayley says finally, looking away from him, her expression grave. “So many people have to go through pain and sorrow to arrive at peace. I hope you find yours here.”
Her sudden sincerity stuns him. “So do I. Thank you.”
Miss Nestor is watching them, or so he assumes. She still wears her veil, even though he has tried to convince them they aren’t needed anymore.
“It’s late,” Miss Hayley says, looking at him, then Miss Nestor. “I should be going to sleep. I wouldn’t want to miss anyone waking up.”
Miss Nestor nods politely as she turns around. Frank watches in awe as Miss Hayley steps up to her tree and slips into it as if the bark is made of water. And once she is gone, he wants to touch the tree, to see if it is truly solid. But he knows better. That tree is not just her home, she made that very clear. That tree is Miss Hayley. Touching it without her permission is just as bad as touching her human form without permission.
“She is very new,” Miss Nestor says when they’ve walked a polite distance away. “Well, not as new as you are, but rather new. She’s young, and wasn’t always a dryad.”
Frank’s mind opens like a blank book, pen ready to take notes. “People can be turned into nymphs?”
“Oh yes,” Miss Nestor says with a sigh. “If you feel brave enough, you might ask Miss Ballato about that.”
He may consider himself brave, but he does not consider himself that brave.
“Miss Hayley used to live in America, though she’s done well to hide her accent.”
Frank would agree, he hadn’t heard a hint of American in her voice. “I would never have guessed.”
“She prefers it that way.” Miss Nestor sighs again. “She’s been through so much more than any young girl ought to have gone through. Much of it is her story to tell, but the day she was turned to a dryad…”
Frank waits patiently while Miss Nestor collects herself, seeming to push her anger down.
“A man once believed himself all-powerful, and when that was proven to be false, took out his rage on an innocent young woman.” Miss Nestor’s face is still covered, but Frank can hear the fury dripping from her voice. “He believed himself akin to Zeus, so he turned a girl to a tree. But then he learned just how little power he truly had.”
He gives her a sidelong glance.
“Mother Nature protects her children,” Miss Nestor says cryptically. “That man’s power, compared to Hers, was nothing. Truly, nothing, in comparison to the might of Mother’s rage.”
“And how did Miss Hayley find her way here?” Frank asks. He wonders only because he knows that trees are most often stuck where they are, if not networks of roots under the ground woven together, communicating with other trees.
“The duke went to America to collect her,” Miss Nestor says. “The incident was reported to American authorities and Duke Von Stump was the one they called on for help. The initial request was to turn her back, but…”
“Can I assume that is impossible?”
“You can assume it is nearly impossible,” Miss Nestor says carefully. “We haven’t given up, but… For now, she is safely among her new kind. They look out for her, keep her safe from harsh wind and snow, from summer heat and flooding from the rains. She isn’t very keen on learning more about her new power, that granted to her by Mother Nature, but the duke isn’t keen on making her do anything she doesn’t want to do. He mostly lets the garden alone.”
Frank is nodding, looking around at the plants. “I suppose that is best.”
Miss Nestor sighs. “Well, you met one new face. At least the trip wasn’t a total waste.”
“It wouldn’t have been a waste either way,” Frank insists. “I quite enjoy your company.”
A low noise, someone clearing their throat, caused Frank and Miss Nestor to turn around to see Gerard behind them on the path. His frown is deep, though he stands in a way that conveys he is trying to seem casual, friendly.
It takes less than a second for Frank to see right through him.
“Hello, Doctor Way,” Miss Nestor says, turning around fully and smiling. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” he says, giving her a smile back. Frank can see the tenseness behind it, even where Miss Nestor seems to be blind to it. “I just thought I would come collect you before dinner. Wouldn’t want you two to miss a meal.”
“Always so thoughtful,” she says brightly, turning to Frank and holding out her arm. “Shall we do to dinner?”
Frank takes her arm, pointedly smiling at Gerard. He revels in the way it makes his jaw clench. “Absolutely.”
“Grand,” Gerard says curtly, turning to follow them when they pass him.
The whole way back to the castle, Frank feels Gerard’s gaze on his back and lets himself feel triumphant. He is one hundred percent correct in his assumption, and he cannot wait to slap Gerard in the face with it later.
Chapter 11: A River...
Summary:
"Should Love drown the man,
May he drown in a river,
So that his life might find yet a new place to rest."- A Recovered Untitled Poem from the Wentz Estate. In Place of a Title, it Bears the Note, "For M."
Chapter Text
“You are jealous.”
The words, as promised, seem to smack him across the cheek. Gerard stares at him. “What?”
Frank is wearing his most mischievous grin after dinner, standing in his doorway. Gerard has followed him there, surely with the intention to say goodnight, but now is having to face the truth that Frank saw written all over his body language in the garden. “The way you looked at Miss Nestor, the fact that you interrupted us right after I said I enjoy her company — you are jealous.”
“I-I am not,” Gerard insists, but his voice is weak. His face goes a little pink.
“Admit that whatever this is,” Frank says, lowering his voice slightly for the doctor’s benefit. “You feel it too. And it is making you jealous.”
Pink turns to red. “I-I do not- I am not- it isn’t-!”
“Denial, as I’ve heard, is a river in Egypt,” Frank says, still giving him that same impish smile as he begins to shut the door in his face. “So, doctor, you best have the means to swim upstream.”
The duke finds him pacing in the library, sorting books and nervously muttering to himself.
“I’ve looked everywhere for you,” he says, watching Gerard put a seemingly random stack of books in alphabetical order, then reverse order. “Are you alright? At dinner you were…”
Distracted, Gerard assumes is what he was going to say. Distracted by the way Frank had seemed to pay all his attention to everyone but him, the way Frank laughed at something Miss Nestor had said and then refused to tell him what it had been, the way Frank quickly looked away each time their eyes met. Yes, Gerard thinks, now organizing the books by letter and volume, he had been distracted at dinner.
“Just tidying up,” Gerard says under his breath, feeling heat creep up his neck. He hadn’t realized until Frank had said it, but now that he has, he cannot stop thinking about it.
You are jealous.
Simple, yet scathing. And accurate.
“Why are you organizing Mr. Iero’s books?” Duke Von Stump asks, still standing by and watching awkwardly as Gerard searches for more to do.
He stares at the book stack on the table. “I hadn’t realized they were his.”
“They are.” Simple. Scathing.
“I suppose I’m just frustrated,” Gerard says, searching for an excuse that will get the duke to stop worrying. “Frank’s progress has stalled. I suppose I’m worried that it could be a sign of an underlying issue.”
“Mr. Iero’s progress,” the duke says, raising an eyebrow, and Gerard realizes his mistake too late, “will improve with practice, I think.”
“Practice in assault,” Gerard says through a humorless laugh. “I can’t believe it’s gotten this bad.”
“Well, it is a better solution than we normally would use,” the duke insists. “Starvation or pain and life-threatening situations are not an option, specifically because of your aversion to causing suffering. But bolstering his connection to himself hasn’t worked either. The natural eventuality seems to be violence from his end, does it not?”
Gerard frowns. He would never cause Frank harm, he would never cause anyone harm. Had he the choice, he would refuse to continue holding Thrall at all, seeing as their breaking his hold seemed to only get more complicated the more they did it. But Frank’s comment about amputation, his argument for the use of small instances of harm in order to heal in the long-run…
“Are we sure he hasn’t made progress since he started trying to attack you?” the duke asks thoughtfully, eyeing the stack of books.
“He hasn’t gotten any closer to breaking my hold,” Gerard says. “So I don’t think so.”
The duke hums, eyes scanning the library. Since Frank brought his books back with him from London, the duke had ordered his personal lounge room to be renovated to a personal library for him. Soon, Gerard thinks grimly, Frank will have no need to come to the castle’s library.
“Well, we can examine his progress tomorrow,” the duke says. “Don’t you think?”
Gerard doesn’t look at him, only watching his own finger trace the spine of one of Frank’s chosen books. A volume on Elemental Plant Lifeforms, one he asked Miss Nestor to pull for him after dinner.
“Gerard?” Duke Von Stump so rarely calls him by his name that what he utters it, it feel foreign in his tone of voice.
“Yes?” He finally looks up, and sees his old friend so terribly worried for him.
“Are you alright?”
The repeated question gets no further than the first did. Gerard takes a deep breath, turning to the stack again, and feeling the truth settle into his chest, setting his mind off-kilter. “Yes. I will be. A good night’s sleep is probably all I need.”
The duke can practically taste the falsehoods, it’s written on his face. But he nods, allowing his friend to lie to him, and motions for them both to leave. “Well, then I will walk you back to your rooms. It has been a long week, hasn’t it?”
“Terribly long.”
He is jealous. The fact gets no less burning hot when he submerges himself in his ice-cold bath. But why is he jealous? That question, once a companion in his day-to-day practice, now buzzes around his head like a fly. Why?
Naturally, the hold is the first culprit. Sires that hold Thrall are most often touched with some amount of feeling of possession over them. But this is not the feeling of having ownership, this is something much more pure. Something soft as silk, that snags just as painfully over the spines of his heart meant to keep him safe from such a thing.
So then it can’t be the hold, can it? It has never been so hard for Gerard to sift through his feelings. If the hold is not the culprit, then the truth is something much more troubling. Though, maybe troubling is an unfair term to use.
Frank’s words from so many weeks ago comes to Gerard’s mind. Or, specifically, one word: Love.
The word makes Gerard’s palms sweat. So many times in his life, he has found trouble in thinking on the topic of love. And once again, it finds him, sinking further into the tub, wishing he could add ice to his bath, submerging his head and wishing he might drown on accident.
Underwater, the truth only finds him at a higher volume. It’s as if he can hear it clear as day.
You are in love.
With a man.
The second voice is not his, but his father’s, and it sends him through the surface of the water, gasping for air and scrambling for a towel. His arms burn with the memory of leather belts. His legs tremble and he is sprawled on the bathroom floor, towel hastily around his shoulders, shivering not from the cold.
I cannot be, Gerard thinks frantically. Please do not let it be true.
But like most truths, it cares not for his feelings. Now, it is his lungs that burn, this time with the memory of incense burned in the cathedrals, the smell tickling his nose and threatening to make him sneeze. The moment before he can, his nose is grabbed by a pair of thick fingers, and his father’s angry face appears before him.
Gerard shouts, once again in his bathroom, and presses his face into the cold tile to try and calm himself. Just memories. Just memories…
He cannot be in love. Not with a man.
But, a small voice says as his fear subsides, if it were to be any man… He may just be alright if that man is Frank.
Chapter 12: On Perspective
Summary:
"It's been said control feels like the wind in summer
Warm and soft, like the hands of a lover
But nothing I've seen tells me control is like that
For all I have seen is the lover's spat."- A Recovered Poem from the Wentz Estate, titled "Summer's Lover."
Chapter Text
Oh, the beauty of spring!
Frank all but skips through the lush gardens, marveling at the bushes of roses and honeysuckles and marigolds, and all other manner of flower he has yet to learn of. One day, the gardens seemed to blossom overnight, the trees regaining their leaves, the bushes turning green once more and brimming with flowers the moment they could.
Since meeting Miss Hayley, Frank has only seen her a few times. Once, just before she went to bed, she told him that most of the others were morning people, and to come during the early hours before dawn broke. Another, she had been sitting alone, looking morose, and he had offered to bring her something sweet to lighten her mood. Reproachfully, she had explained that dryads could not eat regular food like he could. Hearing this, and seeing her longing look at the mention of sweets, Frank stirred up a concoction of sugar and water to pour at the roots of her tree. This managed to win him a thankful smile, and even a shimmering tear in her eye, though he would never tell anyone he’d seen it.
Today, he hopes to see her again, and he does. She stands in the garden’s small grove of trees, surrounded by other dryads from the other trees there. Two of them stand nearest to her, in a protective sort of way that reminds Frank of the way the duke always stands around him.
One has hair that reminds Frank of Mr. Toro, though nowhere near as untamable. The other has a kindness to his face that instantly endears Frank to him. Both of them are dressed similarly to Miss Hayley, in green tunics and bare feet, though the men also wear shorts. Their skin and hair and eyes are all also green like Miss Hayley, but of different tones and undertones. Frank wonders immediately if the color and undertone of their skin has to do with what kind of tree they are. The other dryads seem to pull back from them as he approaches.
“Good evening, Frank,” she calls to him, waving him over. “I finally managed to get my friends to stay up to meet you.”
“I appreciate that very much,” Frank said, nodding to the two men. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The man to her left, the one with curled hair and, now that Frank was close enough to see them, sage green eyes that seemed to hold incalculable depth, steps forward to shake his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Iero.”
Instantly, Frank is hit by his American accent. When he shakes his hand, he feels calloused fingers and a strong grip. “You as well, Mr…”
“Taylor,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t mind if you drop the honorific.”
“Mr. Taylor,” Frank says, knowing he would feel impolite if he didn’t use his owed title. He turned to the other man. “And you are?”
“Zachary,” the other man says, and his voice is such a good match to his face, softer and with a quality of quiet confidence. He also is notably American.
“Mr. Zachary,” Frank says with a nod.
Hearing them speak freely in their normal accents, Miss Hayley must feel she is able to do the same. Frank could swear he sees her shoulders drop an inch. “He’s a very polite person, like I told you.”
“You weren’t joking,” Mr. Taylor chuckles. “If I didn’t know better, I might assume all vampires were just polite by nature.”
Frank resists the urge to frown. What does he mean by that?
“Hayley was telling us about your… situation,” Mr. Zachary says tentatively. “I can’t imagine what that kind of thing must feel like.”
“It is certainly strange to navigate,” Frank admits. He wonders, though, what exactly Miss Hayley has told them. “But it will be possible eventually to never fall victim to another vampire’s hold again. It’s what I’m working toward.”
A strange wave of some uncomfortable feeling seems to ripple over the three of them. Frank fears he might have said something impolite, but then Mr. Taylor slings his arm around Miss Hayley’s shoulders and grins at her.
“See? Duke Von Stump works miracles here every day. All he needs is more time,” he says, shaking her slightly.
She is so much smaller than them, shorter and almost child-like when she stands like this. Shoulders hunched, eyes cast down, Frank imagines her in the colonies dressed in Puritan garb, and is suddenly thankful that she was turned into a tree.
“The duke just needs more research, I bet,” Frank says, catching her cautious eyes. “He works very hard trying to help everyone here, I’ve seen that for myself. But often, he struggles with things that have yet to be added to his records, things he has little research on.”
“Time, research,” Miss Hayley repeats quietly. “Sure.”
Frank wants desperately to tell her that the duke will make her case a priority, that he will personally see to the collection of that research, but how could he make that kind of promise? He still has yet to even suggest he join the duke’s team of researchers, if it could even be called that. Though, suddenly, he knows just what to propose to the duke when he eventually does bring it up.
“Anyway, since we’ve finally gotten to meet your vampire friend, we should teach him a little about ourselves, yes?” Mr. Taylor suggests, once again giving Miss Hayley’s shoulders a squeeze. He holds his hand out toward the trees. “Tell him about yourself, Hayley.”
Frank hesitantly steps into the grass to follow them toward the tall, beautiful trees. What once were blossoming pink flowers had already gone and left only the green leaves behind. They were no less beautiful, of course. And each one was the home— no, was one of the dryads in front of him as well.
“Japanese cherry blossom,” Miss Hayley says, gesturing to her tree. She sounds rather flat and dry, then takes a breath before turning to look at Frank instead of her tree. “I’m not sure why, since none of us have ever been to Japan.”
Frank catches his thoughts before they escape his mouth. Telling her that maybe it was because she was so beautiful and that kind of tree is the most beautiful in the eyes of so many might not go over well with her.
“I didn’t start out a cherry blossom,” Mr. Zachary says then, running his hand over what Frank assumes is his tree. “I started out an American birch, isn’t that odd?”
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Taylor says thoughtfully. “Once we were all together, it was like we began to sing the same song.”
Frank is hardly keeping up with what they’re saying, what it means. Mr. Zachary and Mr. Taylor weren’t originally cherry blossom trees? But then they met Miss Hayley and their trees… transformed? To match her?
“The others say it’s called harmonizing,” Miss Hayley offers, likely because Frank is wearing his confusion plainly on his face. “When you find others whose souls match yours, whose paths have been so similar, you kind of just…”
She makes a general gesture with her hands, then looks up at her tree. “Become one, form a community. I don’t know why they became like me, though. Of all the trees to be, I’d rather be something less… Pink.”
She says the word with such disdain that Frank almost offers to paint her blossoms next spring to hide the color. Aside from how ridiculous a notion that is, he understands that kind of resentment. Though he’s never exactly expressed it, he remembers feeling that same resentment toward being Thrall. The idea that something in his living life might have influenced his new nature angered him. He imagines how awful it would’ve been to tell her his thoughts on her being a cherry blossom earlier, how she might’ve reacted if he’d called such a thing beautiful.
And then he thinks about her words, that their paths in life had been similar enough for them to harmonize their trees with her. If Miss Hayley was turned into a tree against her will, did that mean Mr. Zachary and Mr. Taylor had been as well? Or perhaps it was something in their lives before that, living in the colonies.
“I don’t mind the color pink,” Mr. Zachary says, leaning his back on his tree. “It’s a bit of a rebellious color, don’t you think?”
Miss Hayley makes a face, but Mr. Taylor nods thoughtfully at his own tree.
“I certainly think so,” he says. “Bright, unyielding, and gone in a flash. What’s more rebellious than that?”
Now, Miss Hayley rolls her eyes, settling them on Frank once more. “See how they try so hard? They’re doing their best to make me feel better.”
“Is it working?” Mr. Taylor asks playfully.
“Not really,” she replies flatly.
“Guess we need to try harder,” Mr. Zachary says, and then sinks right into his tree.
Frank doesn’t mean to make a sound, he really tried not to, but the yelp slips from him the moment he watches Mr. Zachary meld seamlessly into the tree’s bark with no resistance. His face turns pink because he’s seen this before, for God’s sake, but to see it happen up close is so different than from afar. It looks less like water and more like- like something he can’t even describe. Two solids combining in a liquid way, pressing into bark and then becoming it. He wonders if it hurts.
And then he hears Miss Hayley laughing, high and bright, and he’s at least thankful he’s made her day brighter with his embarrassing noise. Mr. Taylor is smiling at her, and she doubles over for a moment before giving Frank a slap on the arm.
“You act like you’ve never seen it before!” she says through her trembling giggles.
“I-I was just shocked by how strange it looks,” he admits, face still pink with embarrassment. “Does it hurt?”
This pulls a fresh laugh from her, and she shakes her head. “No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s the opposite, really. It feels like coming home to a warm house on a cold winter night.”
The idea intrigues him. “Really?”
She nods, still smiling, and presses her hand into her own tree. “It’s the only thing I actually like about being this tree. It always welcomes me warmly.”
Mr. Taylor knocks on Mr. Zachary’s tree. “Huh. Sounds like he went to sleep.”
“He was never one for manners,” Miss Hayley sighs. To Frank, she says, “Sorry about that. He gets shy sometimes.”
“It’s alright, it is getting late,” Frank says. “I should let you all rest. But it was a pleasure to meet you and Mr. Zachary.”
“You too,” Mr. Taylor says, nodding his head toward him.
As he leaves the gardens, the nymphs all quiet and resting, and heads into the castle to find the duke.
“You don’t seem well.”
Gerard glares at his papers, wondering if a glare can make them combust in his hands. He schools his expression just enough to hide his utter self-despair and look the duke’s way.
Duke Von Stump waits for him to speak, and when it becomes apparent that he will not, the duke dips his head to sip his tea, averting his gaze.
No, Gerard is not well. Not since realizing that he is absolutely jealous of anyone close to Frank. Since then, all he thinks of is the terrifying truth of what that jealousy means. Not to mention, the lift in Frank’s mood with spring brought a pause to his attempts to break Gerard’s hold. With all the extra time, Gerard had to watch as he spent it with Miss Nestor, or Miss Hayley in the gardens, or Mr. Toro in the library, and never with him.
“Is there anything I can do?” The duke asks, shifting in his chair, setting his cup and saucer on his desk. “I know you and Mr. Iero have stopped trying recently, but…”
It was wise of him to stop talking, Gerard thinks. He isn’t really reading the papers he is hiding his face with, only hoping they might block out everything around him. They are not helping, however, with the way that every word that leaves the duke’s mouth further annoys him.
“We could consider—”
The duke’s words are cut off by the doors to the duke’s study being thrown open by Frank, who is steeled with some kind of righteous determination.
And like always, in the way that makes Gerard hate his own kind with a burning passion as hot as the sun, it disappears the moment Frank sees him. Because to Thrall, the only thing that matters is their Sire.
“Gerard,” the shorter man says, startled and delighted to see him.
Gerard says nothing, only nods to him, hoping that will keep him from fixating on him and allow him to speak freely with the duke as he was clearly just about to. But he doesn’t, and instead it feels as though it is Frank’s attention suffocating him instead of the other way around. The papers do not protect against this either.
“Did you need something, Mr. Iero?” the duke asks, trying and failing to pull his attention from Gerard.
“Did you just come from the garden?” Gerard asks, glancing up at Frank.
“Yes,” Frank answers, pleased at having caught his attention. “Did you just come from the library?”
So they can both smell it on each other. “Yes.”
“What were you doing there?” Frank asks, letting the doors shut lightly behind him.
“Last night I was tidying up your stacks.” Gerard tries to make this sound nonchalant, but Frank’s wide grin tells him that he sees right through him. “This morning, I was looking for information about our situation again, to no avail.”
“I was in the garden meeting with Miss Hayley and her friends,” Frank says. He has this little smile that somehow feels teasing, mocking, his eyes knowing as they stay glued to Gerard’s face. “She taught me a bit about dryads. I found it fascinating.”
Gerard nods.
“Is that why you came to see me?” the duke asks, a nudge to get him back on track that finally works.
Frank’s eyes slide back to the duke, and the haze of obsession seems to lift just long enough for him to get ahold of his thoughts again. “Oh, yes! I was going to ask if I might be able to do some research with you.”
If he thought he could, Gerard would’ve slipped out of the room. Finally, some strong impulse of Frank’s Intellectual nature has broken through. One glance his way could ruin this chance for him.
“A research partner?” the duke muses, smiling. “What a wonderful idea. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. You would be an excellent research partner, with your sharp memory and clever wit. Is there a specific area you were thinking?”
The way he says it, Gerard knows the duke wants him to say the hold, or the strange pack-like bond, but the next words out of Frank’s mouth make perfect sense to Gerard.
“I want to try and learn more about dryads so that we might help Miss Hayley turn back into a human.”
The duke frowns ever so slightly, but then he leans back thoughtfully. “Well, that is a noble purpose. How could I refuse?”
Frank’s smile is as bright as his energy. It rolls off him and butts up against Gerard’s dour mood. Belatedly, Gerard wonders if Frank can feel his moods as he can feel Frank’s.
“I’ll write you up a list of research materials to familiarize yourself with what I currently understand about dryads,” the duke says. “Once you’ve finished reading those, we can talk about further research and any ideas you might have.”
“Thank you so much,” Frank says, walking forward to shake his hand, because Frank is such a polite person at heart and it makes Gerard’s heart twist.
As he turns to leave, his eyes once again get caught in Gerard’s stupid Sire net, and he pauses.
Gerard is about to ask if he is feeling well lately, or perhaps if he wants to try breaking his hold again soon, if he ought to just see if releasing him from his hold would actually yield better odds in the long run, but then Frank’s gaze seems to drain his mind of all other thoughts.
“We should have tea together soon,” Frank says, and Gerard agrees, nodding before he can even think of a response.
The duke, to his credit, reacts as if he has never seen anything more horrific, standing from his chair and taking an instinctive step back.
Then the oppressive pressure on Gerard’s chest relents, and Frank blinks in surprise with him.
“Huh,” the Thrall says, watching Gerard curiously. “I appear to be getting stronger.”
“Stronger?” the duke repeats uneasily.
Frank ignores him, and Gerard understands instinctively what he means, with no small amount of horror.
They aren’t just bonded strangely, they are beginning to share each other’s powers. Gerard’s new obsession with organization, the way new information will distract him from what he had been thinking or saying, even potentially the growing annoyance with the duke— Frank’s little agreements, his attempts to hold the duke and Miss Nestor before Gerard came to the castle, his playful teasing of Gerard’s attention, and now his successful attempt to command him—
“Curious, is it not?” Frank says lightly. There is no longer any strong feeling between them, not even Gerard’s nature holding Frank’s attention.
“You’ve been experimenting,” Gerard realizes. Because he has, it’s the only way he could have just held him. “You’re even more clever that I thought.”
“The only way to find answers is to conduct experiments,” Frank recites the words the duke once wrote perfectly.
“You can place a hold on other vampires?” the duke says. He sounds ill.
“No,” Frank says, glancing at him indifferently. “Only on Ger- Doctor Way.”
This does not seem to make the duke feel better. He still looks as if insects are crawling up his back. “I see.”
Gerard knows how this feels. He remembers very clearly the feeling of being something other and strange and wrong. He closes his eyes to take a breath, only to be startled by Frank’s hand on his shoulder. It is warm.
“I didn’t mean to do that without asking,” Frank says, his eyes clear and earnest. “It was as if I felt entitled to try. I’m sorry.”
Despite just establishing that they were sharing powers, Gerard is somewhat unnerved by the description. It’s the precise feeling he gets around Thrall. It turns out that being on the other end of such an admittance does not feel comforting at all. “I-I understand.”
Frank turns to the duke one last time. “I look forward to working with you.”
“You as well,” the duke manages.
Frank leaves, and the duke’s eyes are on Gerard, but he has his head in his hands before he can be demanded to process anything that just happened. His head has begun to pulse painfully, and he implicitly knows that his body is rejecting having been held, his nature thrashing in rebellion, begging for retaliation. It takes all his willpower to tamp the feeling down, because he cannot harm Frank, even for violating his autonomy.
After all, he reminds himself harshly, Gerard exerts that control over Frank every time they are in the same room. It isn’t fair to get upset that he might get a taste of his own medicine.
Day one of being the duke’s research assistant and Frank is already learning more than he’d ever expected to. Not only are dryads their trees, but they can form attachments to one another, often leading to their own natural form being changed. Harmonizing, as Miss Hayley had said. All nymphs can harmonize, and they only harmonize with those that they not only form attachments with, but also those they have an existing similarity with. All of this he had learned from his visit with Miss Hayley, Mr. Taylor, and Mr. Zachary. The entirely new information was that this seemed to happen with every type of nymph. They formed bonds.
Bonds. Frank circles the word in the book he was given by the duke on the subject of nymphs. They form bonds, just like the pack bonds of the werewolves, and just like this strange bond he and Gerard have formed. Suddenly, it seems strange that the same thing hasn’t been observed in vampires until now.
Frank takes notes as he goes, fascinated by the tiniest facts. Green nymphs, those that reside in plant life, are most common, though blue nymphs, those that reside in water, can be up to three times their size. The most uncommon type of nymph is the grey nymph, those that reside in stone and rock.
Frank chastises himself, not reside in. He makes a note in each of the duke’s books he reads through that this terminology should be changed. The duke ought to show them the respect they are due, just as he tries so hard to do with the different types of vampires.
“Hard at work already.” Frank jumps at Gerard’s voice behind him.
He turns around to see him standing in the doorway of the library. He looks dreadfully exhausted, and despite the world tilting his way, Frank finds the ability to ask what’s wrong. “Are you ill?”
Gerard huffs a small laugh. “No. I’m quite healthy.”
Right, Frank remembers. Vampires are incapable of getting sick. Then why does he look so-?
“I thought we might try one more time,” Gerard says, and it feels as if he is saying he might give up after this. The thought brings Frank no small amount of unease.
Frank closes the book on nymphs and sets it down. “Alright.”
If nothing else, he wishes to understand why Gerard seems so distraught.
Gerard sits across from him at the library table. He straightens his coat, his sleeves, his collar. Though it was his idea, he appears to be stalling.
That strange familiar sense of impatience washes over Frank, and he wishes to tell Gerard to stop, to get on with it, command him to start their test. Instantly, he reigns in the impulse. Such a strange new feeling, one he very much does not enjoy having. It’s almost as unsettling as the impulse to obey.
Finally, Gerard sets his gaze on him, his hold washing over Frank. Strangely, this time it feels less like ocean waves over sand, and more like crashing rapids over ragged stones. They both fight for control for a moment, Gerard’s eyes growing wide, until finally Frank’s nature gives in to Gerard’s, and he is blissfully open to whatever Gerard might suggest.
Despite the struggle, Gerard squares his shoulders. “Frank.”
His name sounds so beautiful from the doctor’s lips.
“I am quite tired of fighting,” he says, and Frank agrees. Fighting has gotten them nowhere. “I would much rather you practice with me the way you practiced with Miss Nestor.”
Frank tilts his head to the side.
“Question everything,” Gerard says, a very clear, serious command, an iron hand around Frank’s throat.
Why would he want him to question everything? Frank frowns. What good would that bring him?
“Stand,” Gerard demands.
Frank’s legs strain to follow, but his mind keeps him seated. For what reason should he stand? “Why?”
Gerard’s eyes jump around his face, searching for something. “Because I want you to.”
For what purpose? Frank slowly begins to stand, still staring at his Sire in confusion.
He pauses. His Sire? Why is Gerard his Sire? And better yet, what gave him the right to be? Just because he is a doctor, just because Frank transformed into Thrall, just because it was the lesser of the available evils?
Both of them jump at the phantom sound of a crack. Some fissure has opened in Frank’s mind, and he feels himself flooding through, rushing to himself. His eyes widen as he slowly sits back down, listening to the free flow of thought.
He is not in control of me. I do not need to do what he says. I do not wish to be like this forever. I wish to think for myself, do for myself, act for myself! Break, damn you, BREAK!
Frank merely listens to the voice, his own voice, though none of the thoughts are ones he remembers having.
Gerard is staring at him too, eyes wide, as though he can hear it too.
And suddenly, Frank moves away with a start, because he can hear Gerard’s thoughts.
I pray he is strong enough to break it. By God’s grace, I wish I could release him from this hell. I pray one day I might hear his genuine thoughts, untainted by my own. I wish I could just command him to break my hold.
“Are you hearing that?” Gerard asks, his voice thin.
Frank simply nods, fascinated.
I want to think for myself!
I want him to think for himself!
“It distorts us both,” Frank says, staring through the doctor, purely focused on the voices that match theirs but never either of their active thoughts. Well, Frank’s don’t match his active thoughts. He wonders suddenly if the doctor has been thinking these things the entire time.
“First sharing mannerisms, then powers and natures,” Gerard murmurs, watching him with matched fascination. “Now thoughts.”
Break his hold, you useless thing!
Break my hold, you beautiful creature!
Frank’s face warms. Beautiful?
Gerard stands with a jolt, breaking whatever connection they’d opened between them. The sudden interruption makes Frank’s head spin. He holds the edge of the library table to keep from falling out of his seat.
Once the room is stable again, Frank peers up at Gerard’s bright red face. None of his thoughts can be heard, but Frank’s own whisper to him in the back of his mind. Whatever fissure they opened, it was still there, his unadulterated thoughts seeping through.
Break it! You are not owned by anyone! No one can command another man except God himself!
“I can hear myself,” Frank says, ignoring the humiliation clear on the doctor’s face.
Gerard swallows. “It’s the same for me.”
“I think this counts as progress,” Frank says. He blindly reaches for his notes, jotting down what just happened.
Yes, follow your impulse to document, to learn, to record and research. This bolsters your strength against him!
Frank’s hand shakes as he writes his notes, part of him at war with those thoughts, insisting he shouldn’t become stronger against Gerard’s authority. But then he frowns, staring at his fingers curled around the pen. He should become stronger against his hold. He doesn’t want to. He must.
He finishes his notes, then stands, looking back to Gerard, who watches him, frozen in shock.
“Get the duke,” Frank says. There is no weight behind his demand, it is not a command, but Gerard scrambles from the library as if it was.
“A leak,” the duke repeats, looking between them.
“It was the strangest thing,” Gerard says, pacing. “And still, I can hear part of myself trying to break through my nature.”
“I have the same thing,” Frank says, shaking his head in confusion. “It is so odd, because the thoughts are mine, in my voice, and yet I don’t recall ever thinking them.”
The duke has passed the point of looking at all shocked, horrified, or fascinated. He looks exhausted. He walks to the large library chairs by the cold fireplace, slumping into one and covering his face with his hands. “How many more unprecedented things must happen to you two?”
Fuck you.
Frank balks at the thought. How rude of him to think! And to direct such an ugly thought at the duke of all people, who helped him recover and—
Are you still so blind?
Gerard and the duke are talking and Frank can only hear himself. He turns toward the window, following the sound of his own thoughts.
The duke himself said holds must be broken many times. The initial hold is the only one left to break before you can finally think for yourself. The duke has been lying, allowing you to be implicitly under his control this whole time. And you allow it, because he has positioned himself as the altruist.
That cannot be true, Frank thinks, eyeing the duke’s reflection in the window.
Why is he the only one still unveiled? Why does he insist on the others staying veiled, yet he has never been? Are you really so naive that his nature could be so perfectly controlled in the presence of Thrall?
Slowly, Frank turns his eyes across the room. They land on the duke’s face the moment he turns to Frank to ask something, and pales at the expression on his face.
Frank finds that he is furious. Because this warm breeze around him, that seems to do all it can to calm his annoyance around the duke, is the duke.
Ice cold wind explodes through Frank’s mind, and the duke flinches, his eyes widening.
“You bastard,” Frank spits, standing up so fast his chair falls.
“I was doing it to keep you safe!” the duke insists immediately, standing as well.
Gerard puts himself between them immediately. “What? What happened?”
“It was never Gerard’s nature as a Sire seeping through,” Frank said, jabbing a finger in the duke’s face. “It was my nature, trying to show me the truth!”
Gerard has to hold him back with both his arms. “What are you talking about?”
“Duke Von Stump,” Frank says, sneering every word, “has been keeping his control over my head like a blanket this whole time! That’s why I’ve found him so infuriating!”
Now Gerard is turning to look accusingly at the duke. “What? Is this true?”
The duke’s guilt is plain on his face. “Thrall are delicate to rehabilitate, and Frank proved to be more than adept at finding his way through holds, I was just trying to keep him safe!”
Frank can feel Gerard’s rage now too, rolling off him like an avalanche.
“We have a protocol for Thrall,” Gerard says sharply.
“I followed it!” the duke insists. “I swear I- I meant to!”
For a moment, Frank wants blood, wants to rip the duke’s throat out for being a filthy liar. Then, Gerard exerts what control he still has to calm him. Killing the duke would be a bad idea anyway, since so many rely on him. Or is that still his hold? Frank searches his mind for warm summer wind.
“Perhaps his uniqueness proved too enticing,” Gerard says, calmly now.
The duke crumples, ashamed, covering his face.
“Caretakers are not Asclepia,” Gerard says, this time to Frank. “They do not struggle with holding Thrall like I often do. More often, like the other Sire types, they struggle with letting them go.”
Frank finally turns away from the duke, trying to calm himself. He instead looks into Gerard’s eyes and tries to steady his mind.
“If the Caretaker had his way,” Gerard says to him. His hands, which still hold his shoulders, slide down his arms. “Any and all Thrall would be his servants, working for him toward his goal of needing to be relied upon.”
The duke sinks into another chair, still keeping his face covered. Frank keeps his eyes trained on Gerard’s. Beautiful pools of green and brown.
“Many Caretakers struggle to keep their intentions pure,” Gerard explains further. “The duke has spent his life running this castle by a pure moral code. But even he can misstep.”
“Overstep,” Frank corrects, sending a glare toward the duke.
“Yes,” Gerard says. “He overstepped. Greatly.”
“I’m so sorry,” the duke sobs into his hands.
Frank has no intention of accepting that apology. Instead, he disengages from the duke, stepping away from Gerard and taking a breath. He goes to the table he had been sitting at previously, looking over his notes and smoothing a hand over the book on nymphs. So much research done by a man that struggles with the urge to exert control. He suddenly wonders how much of the man’s research can even be trusted. So much information that he consumed, implicitly trusting that the duke’s word was final, at least in his own observations. But now, even those were subject to deeper scrutiny. Frank felt he ought to take it upon himself to study every type of vampire for himself, to see what truths actually lie in the duke’s volumes and volumes of research.
Gerard’s hand on his back further calms him. His shoulders slowly relax. He takes another breath and finally turns around to find the duke watching him with eyes full of regret.
“Today,” Frank says firmly, “we start real, honest rehabilitation.”
The duke nods quickly, eager to be forgiven.
Frank looks to Gerard. “I want to study each type and subtype myself.”
Gerard’s face twists in confusion.
Frank looks back to the duke. “I want to see it all for myself. Every single aspect of this new species of mine, with clear eyes and no one else’s influence.”
The duke nods. “Yes, yes of course.”
“I want to study absolutely everything and everyone in this castle,” Frank says, fresh fervor finding his voice. “I want to know everything there is to know. For myself.”
The duke keeps nodding, desperate for Frank’s forgiveness.
“You will never exert your control over me again,” Frank declares, pressing his fist into the library table. “You will never, ever do this again. Even if you believe it would be for my benefit.”
The duke struggles, and Gerard’s hard gaze finally breaks him. He nods.
Again, it takes Gerard’s touch to calm his anger. Frank takes another breath and stands tall. “Swear it.”
“I-I swear,” the duke says instantly. “I will never place a hold on you ever again. Not even if I believe it to be beneficial.”
Frank nods, then turns back to his notes. “Good.”
Chapter 13: On A Good Day
Summary:
Earth, wind, and a touch of fire.
Chapter Text
Ever since opening that fissure in the doctor’s hold, Frank has begun to truly see the affects of it on his everyday life. Often he will go about his day, thinking of tasks he has to get done, like reviewing the notes on nymphs and researching them on his own, and Gerard will make his way into Frank’s mind, and he won’t realize he has planned his entire day around the other man until he is well into it. Or he will feel that gravitational shift the moment he walks into the room and it will throw him off balance, making him lose track of his thoughts. He never used to care before, but now it is endlessly frustrating.
Which is not to say he’s lost his love for the man, mind you. Quite the opposite. Springing that leak seems to have cleared those thoughts considerably.
There is an island in his mind, one he can only reach in his sleep, on which sits a single structure: a circular structure of columns holding up a circular roof, a Greek tholos according to Frank’s memory. Inside this tholos, stands a statue of a doctor. Perfectly rendered and gazing down at him, hand outstretched, waiting patiently. This statue is the image, the perfection, that Frank once believed in.
Every day, this island and statue change. With every new interaction he has with Gerard, the statue becomes less perfect, the tholos beginning to crumble. The day Frank feels Gerard give in to his nature and demand something small of him, to be sure to finish the blood given to him, the statue crumbles altogether.
Now, with that perfect image gone, he sees Gerard for who he truly is: a man. Fallible, eccentric, sometimes wrong, good-natured, well-intentioned, and kind. And despite sometimes being angry with him or annoyed or frustrated, there is this deep, unflappable love in Frank’s chest for the man. Everything he does endears him to the doctor. Everything he says is interesting to him. Simply sharing his company, especially while staring through the crack in the hold at the real man beside him, fills Frank with overwhelming adoration.
This is why, as he is explaining to the duke and Gerard, he knows the bond will remain once the hold is broken.
As he spoke, Gerard began to get this very grave look on his face that has not gone away, and the duke has been taking notes, fascinated and oblivious to his friend’s otherwise apparent plight.
“So, I believe if we catch myself on a good day, I will be able to break your hold,” Frank concludes, looking to Gerard.
“A good day,” Gerard repeats. His voice is low and foreboding.
“Yes,” Frank says, ignoring his tone. “A day where I can focus on what I see on the other side of the hold. Where I can focus on that feeling instead of what requests you attempt to command of me.”
Gerard is nodding slightly, and then casts his gaze to the floor. “Alright. Let me know when that day comes.”
“Would it be alright to ask some questions?” the duke says hesitantly. “I’ve never seen a case like this before, I would love to hear your thoughts on the subject.”
“Of course,” Frank says, further ignoring the way Gerard slinks out of the office.
The lush floral gardens contrast his mood dramatically, further separating Gerard from reality. The memory of the boy he once looked at with such fondness— no, he should be honest with himself, he had been in love with the boy. In love with a young classmate in medical school. Tall, intelligent, and the kind of beautiful that was quiet, subdued. There were no sharp angles to him, yet he was akin to a Greek statue. Hard and immovable.
Gerard sits under the gazebo and watches a rose petal fall from the thick cover of them over the iron replicas. The softness of petals, he picks one up and smooths his thumb over the gentle red thing, thinking of his classmate’s soft lips. He never found the courage to speak his feelings, his own lips remaining rigid and closed as his classmate lifted a young woman into the air at their graduation. She had pressed her lips to his, bubbling with laughter, and Gerard had congratulated him on what would surely end up being a beautiful marriage.
Hearing Frank speak of the way he sees Gerard fills him with panic. Panic, because this time there is no woman waiting to be swept off her feet by Frank, nor Gerard. Though he had been jealous of Miss Nestor before, he knows they are friends, not anything more. Nothing could have made that more evident than Frank’s explanation of his feelings.
And Frank, able to express those feelings so straightforward, so clearly — Gerard could never have done that. Not back in medical school, not even now. The very notion that this bond he and Frank shared might never go away, or that it might be the result of some underlying infatuation on Gerard’s part, scares him more than the Devil himself. What if, when Frank breaks his hold, he still cannot think for himself because of this bond? What if they are both doomed to be master and servant, the cause being some evil, buried urge of Gerard’s?
Not too long ago, he had convinced himself he would be alright being in love with Frank. Now, he was terrified that too was a result of his being a Sire. What if there was some undiscovered affect certain Sires had on certain Thrall? Perhaps Asclepia were especially drawn to the nature of the Intellectual. It would explain his irresistible allure, would it not? Gerard crushed the petal in his fist, clenching it to keep it from shaking.
Far off, he hears voices. He strains to listen when he hears the clear sound of laughter. Frank’s laughter.
“…can hardly believe that,” a woman says. He recalled the duke’s newest dryad had been what spurred Frank’s new passion for research. Wanting to help her find a way to become human once again. Miss Hayley, that is her name. “A crack?”
“Like a fissure in a wall,” Frank explains. “I can see through it sometimes. Well, not see, exactly. But it’s as if, in my mind, I can spot things through the fog of the hold. It’s very fascinating.”
“You sound much more lively than you have in weeks,” she observes.
“I think there is much of myself to still discover,” Frank says lightly. “Oh, and I should tell you about what happened rather recently, just after that crack formed too. Me and the duke had it out.”
“Really?” she sounds shocked. “Over what?”
“Well, you know the types of vampires we are?” he begins. “He is a Sire, and I, a Thrall. Our natures draw us toward one another. His impulse is to command, mine to obey, yes?”
“Yes?” Miss Hayley sounds intrigued.
“Well, once that crack formed, I realized he had been influencing me for quite some time,” Frank says, quieting his voice.
“What?” Miss Hayley’s response is loud and sharp.
“Now that I’ve had time to reflect, I realize it was against his will,” Frank says, hoping to quiet her. “Being vampires, we all started human, you know. It’s the Sire type that he turned into that tries to maintain control. As he is a researcher and I am an Intellectual Thrall, it’s clear to me now that the vampire part of him simply couldn’t resist. I don’t blame to duke for that, because that would be rather hypocritical of me.”
“Still,” Miss Hayley grumbles. “He has no right to do that to you.”
“You’re right, he doesn’t,” Frank agrees. “That is why I called him out, made him swear never to place a hold on me again, even if he thought it might help me.”
“And he swore?”
“He did.”
“Good. I’m trusting him with my own rehabilitation, I’d like to be able to trust that he can control himself.” Her tone is clipped and tight.
“Actually, that was the other reason I’ve come to talk to you,” Frank says, fresh excitement in his voice. “The duke has agreed to give your case to me! I’m going to be in charge of helping you find a way to turn back!”
“Really?” Her own excitement brings a smile to Gerard’s face.
“Yes!” Frank sounds so happy, giddy, that Gerard almost forgets his own turmoil. “Now, I warn you, I don’t know very much about dryads yet, but honestly…”
He pauses, and Gerard imagines him looking around conspiratorially, making sure no one is listening.
“Neither does the duke.”
Miss Hayley laughs.
“But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to learn what I can, and hopefully find you a way to return to your former self.” Frank sounds so sure, so strong and authoritative. Gerard did not realize he could miss something he had never heard before. “I will travel where I must, learn from any and all who will let me, and even dabble in the mystical arts myself if I must. I will do everything I can to help you, Miss Hayley.”
She is quiet. Then, Gerard barely hears her sniffling. “Thank you, Mr. Iero. You have no idea how much it means to me that you would make such a promise.”
“It’s a promise I intend to keep,” Frank insists.
Gerard returns to the hard stone bench of the gazebo, releasing the crushed petal from his hand. It falls, brokenly, flapping in circles before landing unceremoniously at his feet. A soft thing distorted, but still a rose petal nonetheless. Something about it gives him hope, despite all the dread surrounding him.
The weather can no longer be called springlike. The heat has set in early, and summer feels closer than it should. The first day a rain shower floods the gardens, Frank spends almost a full day outside with Miss Hayley to make sure she and the other dryads are okay. She reassures him that they will be alright, as every nymph in the duke’s gardens works together to make sure no one is lost in the floods. Naiads of the lake nearby soak the water up, while the nymphs of the rocks and land do their best to redirect the runoff. Dryads aren’t especially threatened by flooding on the mountain, she tells him, it’s the lightning storms they need to worry about.
On another such day, Frank is outside while he should be sleeping, studying the habits of the nymphs in the gardens. He takes notes under the cover of an umbrella, thankful that the rain isn’t so harsh. At the first glimpse of daylight, he sprints for the doors to the castle, laughing as Miss Hayley throws sopping piles of leaves at him, shouting for him to go to bed.
He runs into the hall, feeling the sunlight already beginning to warm his skin to an uncomfortable degree. The moment he is inside, the hall is dark as night, Miss Ballato’s magic continuing to maintain the castle’s opposite daylight pattern.
When going to put his notes in his coat pocket, he realizes that the coat, like his pants, are soaked below where his umbrella protected him. He sets his umbrella aside and sighs, heading for his rooms.
On his way, he nearly runs face-first into Gerard, too busy tutting at his carelessness to see him coming.
“Oh, excuse me,” he says, nodding politely to the doctor before moving on.
It takes him far too long to realize he’s felt no pull or gravitational shift near the doctor like he should. He stops in the hall, spinning around to look at Gerard’s face. He even has to search, sifting through his mind, to find the hold. Gerard is looking at him in awe.
“Today is a good day,” Frank says.
Gerard is speechless, only able to nod in agreement.
“The library,” Frank says. “I need to change. The rain has been fascinating.”
As Frank takes off toward his rooms again, he wants to kick himself for sounding so ridiculous. He couldn’t have been a little clearer in what he meant? The way he’d said it made him sound simple. Though, the doctor would never think him simpleminded.
He changes into dry pants and throws his coat off. It has been getting more and more hot during the castle’s night, likely because of the heat of the coming summer days. He runs a hand through his hair to put it back in place, since it got rather messed up in his frantic run for shade. He stares at himself in the mirror of his bathroom and remembers an old legend about vampires not appearing in silver mirrors. He wonders how many legends are true, whether this mirror is silver, whether legends about werewolves being weak to silver are true or not. His mind wanders for so long that Gerard actually comes to check on him, knocking gently on his door.
Frank meets him there, pulling the door open, full of excitement for the possibility of this being the last day he might ever be held by another vampire again. A small voice still whines for the hold to be left alone, because he loves Gerard so, and the hold can’t be causing that much harm, it only brings them closer, etcetera. But Frank has seen the truth. The hold is nothing compared to what this other bond promises him.
He has yet to tell Gerard, and doesn’t plan to for a while yet, but through the crack in the hold he can feel the bond growing stronger. The hold makes him complacent, allows him the peace of mindlessness, turns him into a happy dog that follows its master around, enthusiastic to follow orders. The bond, however, seems to be something far more pure. Pure white linen, silk and lace, something gentle and elegant, something made and maintained with love.
Love.
Frank smiles when he sits down across from Gerard in the library.
“If you’re ready,” Gerard says nervously.
Frank nods. “I am.”
Gerard seems to need to take a while to prepare himself. He takes a book from Frank’s stacks, opening to a random page and smooths his hand over it. Frank watches the care with which he handles books. He imagines his hands must feel soft and yet rough, hands of a doctor, who works with tools, but who works intricately and carefully.
“You’ve been researching dryads,” Gerard says, clearing his throat.
“I have,” Frank says.
“Tell me what you’ve learned so far,” Gerard says.
Frank catches the command by the throat. “I’d rather hear what you’ve been doing lately.”
Gerard stares at him. He appears to be scared. “I’ve been working alongside the duke.”
“Doing what?” Frank shifts in his seat.
A wash of something that burns splashes over his mind. “Light me a candle.”
“That stings,” Frank warns, and it is gone instantly.
“I’m sorry,” Gerard says weakly. “Did I-?”
“I’m alright,” Frank promises. “It just stung. Are you scared of something?”
He knows very well what he must be scared of. Not everyone is brazen enough to follow their heart where it leads them.
“Read me a passage,” Gerard tries again.
Frank sighs. He leans on the table, peering at the other man sympathetically. “Try just a bit harder, doctor.”
Gerard closes his eyes, and Frank sees his hand trembling on the table over the pages. Suddenly, he clenches his fist, tearing a page from the book and making Frank flinch. When he opens his eyes again, Gerard is not there. Not even the Asclepia is present. He is a Sire, nothing more.
“Stand.”
Frank’s legs tense against the command. Obey.
“I said, stand,” Gerard growls.
Frank stands, knocking his knee against the leg of the table.
“I’ve torn a page out,” Gerard says indifferently.
“I can repair it,” Frank says, forcing the words from his chest.
“Don’t bother,” Gerard says, flipping the book shut and shoving it aside. He takes the torn page with him as he stands, and Frank watches the hand it is held in like a mother watching her child.
“Please don’t-!” Frank begins, and is cut off by the feeling of the hold slithering up his body, tightening like a large snake, restricting his thoughts.
Gerard says nothing as he takes the page to an unlit candle. Frank’s eyes widen as the candle lights itself, and he remembers Mr. Toro telling him about the Sire’s ability to command inanimate objects. So it isn’t just Caretakers, he thinks.
Then his body lurches toward Gerard as he holds the torn page above the fire.
“S-stop!” Frank shouts, and Gerard grunts against the command.
To his horror, he has once again pulled from the Sire’s powers, using them against him. But the page was so close to the fire, and Frank doesn’t remember the book it was torn from, doesn’t know if he has read it before, if he could rewrite the page for the duke. And what would the duke say? Would he remember the information written there? Ignoring the man’s likely highly biased research, it was still research nonetheless. And to Frank, all research is invaluable.
“Release that command at once,” Gerard demands.
Frank shoves his hand in his mouth because that is the only way he can stop himself from complying.
Gerard’s hand strains, trying to push the page into the fire, and Frank shouts as he throws himself at the doctor. He manages to knock the page free, as well as the lit candle, and sends them both sprawling on the library floor. Frank scrambles to hold the doctor’s wrists as he goes to shove him off.
“Get off!” Gerard shouts, his face turning red.
“No!” Frank yells back. “You maniac, you almost burned-!”
“The library will burn if you don’t get up!” Gerard says with renewed urgency. He no longer wears the mask of an unfeeling Sire. He is terrified, eyes wide, glancing toward a flickering light that is behind Frank.
He slides off the doctor, spinning around to see the carpet aflame, the old dusty thing having been all but begging for an open flame.
“Oh,” Frank breathes, staring into the growing flame.
“Get out!” Gerard shouts, grabbing him by the shoulders.
“Th-the books-!” Frank protests.
Gerard hooks his arm around Frank’s waist, pulling him from the library as he struggles to grab as many books from the tables as he can on the way.
It is as he is being pulled away from the burning library, Gerard’s arm around him, pulling him to safety, that he feels a resonating snap! He stops struggling, allowing himself to be hauled out the doors, books tucked against his chest.
He has broken the hold.
Chapter 14: Nothing More
Summary:
"Burn! Burn the lives you used to live! Send your mother letters, tell her who you once were!
Die! Die for what you once believed! Send your lovers letters, tell them you will die for them!
Live! God, live! Find that place where your life may be lived, unbidden and unjudged! Live in the arms of he, he who knows you best, and sleep, sleep under stars that stare unflinching!
May God forgive where you end up."- An excerpt from an untitled manuscript recovered from the ruins of the Wentz estate. It was dated only two weeks prior to the fire, making it the last known piece of writing from the late Peter Wentz. It is now on display at the British Museum in London, with the tentative title of "May God Forgive," given by Duke Patrick Von Stump of Germany, whom also donated the piece to the collection.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Duke Von Stump calls on the naiads of the lake. They put the fire out just in time, stopping it from burning the stacks and stacks of research the duke has amassed. The tables, carpets, chairs, remaining books left out, and even the faces of the fireplaces, however, are not so lucky.
Frank stands among the remains of the library, feeling more heartbroken than he can remember ever feeling. The blackened tables and chairs, the charred remains of the carpet and drapes. And of course, worst of all, the burned and soaked remains of the books.
The books. He grips the soggy pages of the book on Thrall, pulling them to his chest. He sinks to the floor, tears falling unbidden from his eyes. The book that held his type’s information, all the delicately curved lines of the duke’s thoughts and observations. Even with him being biased, even with him only being one voice, at least he had gone to the trouble to write notes on what Frank has become. At least he cared enough to put these observations into volumes, preserving his research for those it might benefit someday.
Now it will benefit no one. And it was all his fault.
“Frank.”
The name is spoken brokenly, nearly whispered. From behind him, Frank hears the burned debris crunch under well-shined shoes. Fingers gently fall on his shoulder.
Had his hold still been there, Frank assumes he might’ve felt comforted, the doctor’s presence a salve to the pain he is feeling. Instead, knowing he is there, feeling the warm tips of his fingers against his shirt, he feels his chest overflow with sorrow.
Gerard crouches next to him just as Frank turns to bury his face in the man’s chest, unable to keep himself quiet any longer. He cries, sobs, wails. The knowledge he held so close to his heart, treated like precious, fragile artifacts, had been damaged beyond repair. Gerard’s arms around him are tense. Frank lets the book drop and curls his fists instead into the doctor’s shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Gerard says softly by his ear. “It’s all my fault.”
This brings Frank’s tears to a stuttering halt. He pushes himself back from their embrace. “Wh-what?”
“I lit the candle, I-”
“I was the one that tackled you,” Frank says bitterly, wiping his nose. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I was careless, too focused on that damned page to even think of how dangerous the flame was for the rest of the room.”
“If we’re pointing fingers, point them at me.” Duke Von Stump’s voice startles them both. He stands in the doorway, hat in hand, looking solemnly at the ruined remains of this side of the library. “I haven’t had reason to ask Miss Nestor to clean up in here for so long, I had been letting the room sit in disuse. When you arrived, I thought of having her clean up but never got around to asking.”
“Oh please, as if this could’ve been anyone’s fault,” a new voice sighs, and Mr. Urie shoves his way into the room, instantly making a disgusted face at the ruins of the place behind his veil. “Christ almighty. Perhaps I was a bit hasty. Dust and age can do all this?”
“I believe it was the fire, not the dust,” Mr. Toro says, squeezing his way past the duke as well. He looks toward Frank and his tearstained face, his expression melting to sympathy. “Oh, Mr. Iero. I’m so sorry.”
Frank wipes his face. “I’ll be alright.”
“While that may be true, without the library, it will be much harder for you to break Doctor Way’s hold,” the duke says, shaking his head.
“Oh, the hold? That’s broken,” Frank says dismissively. He stands, brushing himself off before noticing all the eyes in the room, covered and uncovered, are on him. “What, none of you took the time to notice?”
Even Gerard, who scrambles to stand, looks bewildered.
“Go on, try,” Frank says impatiently, kicking the remnants of the book on Thrall.
“Y-you-” Gerard searches for his words, his hands raising. “When did you-?”
“When you were carrying me to safety,” Frank says. “I just felt it… snap.”
“Snap,” Gerard repeats softly.
The duke stares at him, once again unnerved and confused. “That’s not-”
“Wonderful,” Frank mutters angrily. “Now you’re to tell me that it shouldn’t feel that way, that I am once again a medical or psychological anomaly?”
“W-well-!” The duke cannot seem to find his words either.
“For me, it felt like finally chipping through a stone wall,” Mr. Urie says, surprisingly sincere. Frank looks to his expression, set with a calm seriousness that quite befits the man’s handsome face.
And Frank belatedly realizes he has taken off his veil. His face is angular, strong, yet there is a softness to balance out those features. His eyes are deep brown and expressive, his nose slightly wider than Frank would’ve expected. He can, for some reason, perfectly imagine this man lounging about the rich and well to do in France.
“Really?” Frank asks, because his curiosity is still there. His nature may have been wounded by the loss of the library, but that by no means meant he was going to wallow in it.
“Yes,” Mr. Urie says. “Chipping and chipping until finally I could feel the light shining through. It also only happened after countless weeks of trying, day after day.”
He looks to Gerard, who gives him a slightly guilty look in return.
“You were quite the stern teacher,” Mr. Urie says, smiling. The smile started fond, then took a turn for the mischievous, and he glanced at Frank. “Though, I suppose you lacked someone to soften your heart back then.”
Gerard’s face begins to redden.
“Snapping isn’t the usual sensation, as I understand it,” Mr. Urie says to Frank. “But you’ve been a special case from the start. So, let me, for some reason, be the first to say: well done.”
Laughter bubbles up in Frank’s chest. “Thank you, Mr. Urie. I’m glad I can finally see your face.”
“Likewise,” he says with a wink.
“What are you all doing in here?” Miss Nestor demands, storming into the room. She wears a covering over her mouth, effectively covering her entire face from view with her veil still in place. “Get out! The ash will damage your lungs, you stupid men! Out!”
Frank laughs again as they are all shooed into the hall. Miss Nestor huffs and storms off, muttering about having a horrid week ahead of her, leaving the five of them to stand in the hall, covered in soot. Mr. Toro congratulates him on breaking Gerard’s hold as well, removing his veil and thanking him for making it possible to do his hair properly again. The duke, despite still clearly having questions, also congratulates him, shaking his hand rather officially. Frank finds himself laughing all the way to his ice cold bath, which Miss Nestor must have prepared for him hours ago.
Gerard follows him all the way to the door, stopping just before the bathroom. Frank begins removing his shirt before realizing he is there.
“You should clean up too,” Frank says, eyeing the soot on the man’s pants from kneeling in the debris with him. “At least change into something clean.”
Gerard stares at him, seemingly unable to speak.
“What’s wrong?” Frank asks, stepping toward him.
“I’m sorry,” Gerard whispers.
“For what?” Frank responds, taking another step.
“I think I may have helped you,” Gerard says uneasily. “I felt… I felt your desperation, and I think, when you wanted to go back and save more books, I wanted you to be safe so badly that I might’ve pulled on the hold at the same time, and it snapped instead of-”
“What does it matter?” Frank asks. He is right in front of him now, close enough to smell the sweat and smoke lingering on him.
“You really should’ve broken it on your own.” Gerard’s voice is soft, careful.
“For all we know, I did,” Frank challenges, tilting his head slightly. “How do we know the crack didn’t weaken things?”
Frank’s eyes jump down to the motion of the other man swallowing. “I suppose we don’t.”
“Exactly.” Frank startles him by reaching forward to smooth down his lapel. “More importantly, can you feel that?”
Gerard frowns slightly, then his eyes widen.
Frank feels it. The warmth like sunlight, the tingle of anticipation, the hum of life under his skin. Not the hold, but the bond. Whatever it may be, it is thriving without the hold. Stronger than ever, livelier than ever, and so incredibly pure.
“I’ll not push you today,” Frank says, somewhat playfully as he steps away. He sweats he sees Gerard try to follow. “But I will let you in on a secret I learned.”
“Wh-which is?” Gerard asks.
“This bond of ours,” Frank says, pointing between them. “It grows stronger by the day. And without the hold, my guess is that it with strengthen remarkably.”
Gerard’s face is caught between awe and fear.
“Isn’t it wonderful to imagine how impressive it might become?”
To Frank it is, and he knows Gerard needs time to think the same way. He knows he will get there, though. He still shares some kind of mental connection with the doctor, which is his other secret. And he’s heard it since the fire started.
God, protect this boy that I love.
The moment Frank ran in from the rain, Gerard knew it was the day. This man, who had been so reserved and polite, so preoccupied with the intentions or perception of others, ran in from the midday sun, dripping wet from the rain, laughing. Had walked right past him with barely any acknowledgement, feeling nothing when he looked at him.
Well, not nothing. But not the pull of Gerard’s hold on him.
And in the library, Gerard had done his best to play his part. Terrified of hurting him, he tried to be careful, but something stung and that wasn’t right. So he tried again, something different, but it was too weak. Frank was already past that point. He needed authority.
So Gerard had given him authority. Calling forth his main nature, to control and command, he gave in to his more primitive impulses. And how awful that was, watching Frank have no control over himself again.
The worst, of course, had been the innate ability of his to keep Frank rooted in place, to command not only his mind, but his body. It was his least favorite part of being a Sire.
But of course, Frank had gotten free of that. And of course, Frank used his own powers against him. He still wasn’t sure how, even in the hold of his Sire, he could access such an ability. It had to be the bond, it simply had to. He tried to use his power to get Frank to release him, and he had bested that command with a classic defense that he hadn’t ever used until then. Most Thrall default to physical restraint, because it is the easiest way to refuse a command. Frank, how clever he had been, had always used his mind first.
And then, the fire. The fear. The sheer terror at the idea of losing him. Gerard has seen how quickly vampires burn. The sun takes them quickly, but not as quickly as an open flame. That Frank’s first lesson ended with burning hot tea poured on his hand was a fact Gerard had felt nauseated in learning. Too hot a cup of tea, and the flesh could melt right off, like candle wax. He was lucky then. Gerard was determined to keep luck out of the library fire.
In the moment of trying to pull him to safety, with him reaching for books off the library’s tables, Gerard begged the Lord to protect him. He also begged the hold to break, feeling it pull and strain despite he and Frank moving in the same direction. And when it snapped, he felt his breath stutter in his chest. He didn’t believe it had broken until returning to the library with Frank.
And then in the bathroom doorway, Frank brought attention to the hum under his skin, the warmth of sunlight coming from within, the softest caress of something golden and white.
Their bond.
Whatever it was, it was here to stay. Gerard feels it now, like the softest fabric brushing his skin, as he lays awake in bed. It does not pull like the hold did, it does not tell him things he does not believe, it simply is. He tries to investigate it, but soon realizes all he will learn is that it feels like warm sand, a beach bathed in warm sunshine, the smell of clean linen, the sound of a bird’s song on an early spring morning. The longer he fixates on it, the less he can place where it is and what it appears to him as. He closes his eyes and moves deeper into it, further, closer, until he feels his skin become so warm it threatens to burn.
And then he sees Frank’s face in the center of it, smiling and carefree, running in from the rain.
Gerard bolts upright in his bed, throwing his covers off, stumbling from his rooms to the bath of frigid water. He sinks in, bedclothes still on, because he needs to feel cold again. He is breathing heavy and does not want to think about why.
Frank was right. It is stronger. It continues to get stronger. His bathwater is turning lukewarm before he is cool again. He needs to understand it, but he also fears it more than anything else.
Frank seems to understand this about him. And Gerard realizes he understands something about Frank too. Seeing him in the center of that feeling, their bond, he understood something. Frank is not just his patient, not just his research partner, not just a well-mannered, kind-hearted, clever man. He is also someone precious. He represents so much to Gerard, much more than he could possibly understand at this point. One day, he may understand more. He wants to.
He returns to bed soaking wet, hoping the fabric will cool in the night air and bring his temperature down. He is reminded that the castle’s night is actually the day, and it calms him to think that his sudden warmth must’ve been from that, nothing more.
Nothing more, he tells himself, shutting his eyes and finally falling into a comfortable sleep.
Notes:
The boy's figuring out he has feelings. And the crowd goes wild.
Hello! It's been a month, and last weekend I almost didn't get to see MCR in San Fran!! I did get there in time, thankfully, but not until after my first flight for the day before was canceled, meaning I had to fly in day-of and hope my plane wasn't delayed lmao. Thankfully I made it, and I had the best time in my life, no joke. I'm so glad I got to see them twice in my life, and I'm so excited for LA night 1 tomorrow! Are any of you going?
I'm back to posting this fic, but probably not as frequently as I used to, just a heads up. Also thanks for reading!!
Chapter 15: Jack of All Trades
Summary:
Frank bites the inside of his cheek to avoid saying something rude. “I understand that it sounds like a frivolous trip—”
“I rather thought it sounded like a dangerous one.”
Chapter Text
Where are you right now?
Gerard startles at the sentence as it voices itself in his mind. So clear and crisp, as if spoken directly to him from a few feet away. Frank’s voice.
In the library, he thinks back curiously. I was helping to clean up.
Miss Nestor told me I wasn’t allowed to help! The indignation in his voice — or thoughts — makes Gerard smile. I swear she thinks my lung disease might come back from the bad air.
The air is rather bad in here, Gerard thinks, adjusting the mask over his mouth and nose. Where are you right now?
Reading in the garden. With his response comes a strange half-vision of what appears to be the inside of the garden’s gazebo. He sees a pair of legs stretched out in front of him, a book on his lap, and realizes it must be what Frank is looking at right now.
How did you do that? Gerard puts the mop he had been using back in its bucket. Across the room, Miss Nestor looks up, noticing his straying attention.
Do what? Frank asks. What did I do?
I saw from your eyes for a moment, almost as if I were a Blind.
Really? That’s curious.
Gerard jumps when Miss Nestor puts her hand on his arm. “Are you alright, Doctor Way?”
He blinks at her, the connection to Frank’s mind seemingly broken. “Y-yes. Sorry. Just letting my thoughts run astray, I suppose.”
She gives him a knowing look. “The library will be fixed as quickly as possible, I’ll see to it that it takes half the usual time. The builders have no excuses now anyway, with summer being on our doorstep.”
He nods. “Yes, thank you.”
“Mr. Iero is much stronger of body and mind now, anyway,” she adds, turning her attention and gloved hands back to the charred pieces of what used to be a table. “He can handle it, I’m sure.”
She must’ve thought he had been distracted by thinking of Frank. Which, he supposed, she wasn’t completely wrong about.
He’d tried much harder in the past few days to calm himself over the breaking of his hold causing their strange bond to strengthen. He’d tried and failed, but he was trying, so that ought to count for something.
It was so difficult not to lose his head about it, though. The moment he started thinking about what it might mean, that he might even love him back in that strange, forbidden way, always sent him down a dark path in his brain, one which he very quickly tumbled down. He couldn’t be in love like that, not with Frank. Not only is he a man, which still burned his chest from the inside out, but he is also Thrall. As a Sire, it would be unethical for them to be in a relationship, because of how blurred those lines of consent and autonomy are. It just wouldn’t be right.
After finishing what he could do to clean the floors, the rugs all having been thrown out already, Gerard finds himself wandering the gardens. Perhaps the idea to go there had been planted by his correspondence with Frank, or perhaps he just knew it would lighten his spirits. Either way, he turns the corner and comes upon the gazebo, all stone and iron blanketed by beautiful roses, the most beautiful of them all sitting comfortably on a stone bench beneath it.
“Oh, hello,” Frank says, noticing him as he walks up. “Come to join me in refreshing your knowledge of how to care for plants?”
Gerard smiles. “I just felt like spending some time in nature, that’s all. What plants are you trying to care for?”
“Well, Miss Hayley’s tree is ill with something,” Frank says, flipping through the duke’s old tomes on plant illnesses. “I can’t figure out what, though. I noticed it the first time we met, the little yellowing in her hair. It’s gotten worse, to the point where she’s losing energy. I’ve told her to rest and spend time with some of the naiads from the lake, seeing as they must be full of good minerals from the mountain, but she’s very antisocial.”
As Frank speaks, Gerard sits himself on the edge of the bench next to him.
“Anyway, the duke is a fool,” Frank huffs, making Gerard laugh. “I don’t mean to be rude— though, perhaps I do. But he knows very little about horticulture, no matter how official and smart he wants himself to sound in these books.”
Frank sighs deeply, snapping the book shut. “What I really need is to go into town somewhere and find a real book on horticulture. For all the books the duke has in his collection, very few are not written by him.”
For a moment, Gerard is so distracted by how wonderfully himself Frank seems. There is no hold on him, no one else’s influence, meaning that every word out of his mouth is genuinely his. It fills Gerard with such joy that for a moment, he forgets that he is in a conversation and isn’t sitting there listening to Frank speak as if he were listening to music. “The towns nearest here aren’t very big, but we probably should take a trip to London if you intend to be able to read any of the books you purchase.”
Gerard’s words cause Frank to look at him in surprise. Then, he laughs. “Very good point! I would prefer being able to read them.”
And oh, how that laugh stokes some fire still smoldering in Gerard’s chest. “I’ll call for a carriage to be sent and we can have a holiday in London to find the books you need.”
“A holiday in London?” a new voice calls, and Gerard feels pure annoyance surge through his chest as his one and only surviving (eternal, in fact) family appears from around the rose bushes. He looks well, as they all do and will forever, though he holds himself with a cockiness that likely only Gerard can see. The kind of affectation only a Sire can produce.
“Mr. Way,” Frank says, sitting up properly. “What a pleasure to see you out in the gardens.”
“You as well,” Mikey says, nodding to him. He intentionally keeps his eyes trained on Frank, trying not to upset Gerard, but misses the mark entirely. His attention being on Frank makes Gerard’s chest burn with anger. “I heard talk of taking a London holiday?”
“Oh yes,” Frank says, gathering up his strewn-about books. “I’ve been trying to find what I can on horticulture and plant illnesses, because Miss Hayley — one of the dryads that lives in the gardens — she’s sick with something. But the duke is completely useless on the topic.”
Mikey nods. “He would be. He tries to be a Jack of all trades, but you know what they say about those kinds of people.”
“Masters of none,” Frank says. “Gerard reminded me that I don’t speak German, so we were talking of organizing a trip to London.”
Mikey makes a thoughtful sound. “Couldn’t you just learn German?”
“Does that sound like it would be faster than just taking a trip to London?” Gerard asks sharply. He hadn’t meant to even speak, but the anger in his chest felt like driving nails into hard steel.
Mikey’s eyes finally meet his, unbidden by the veils the castle’s residents have all done away with now, and Gerard feels pure hatred boil in his chest. And he hates himself for it, because this is his little brother.
Something cool and fresh smooths over his rage, though, and he is startled by it. Like ocean waves, gentle and caressing, the anger subsides, and behind it is something simple, something that has survived despite his decades as a Sire: Love for his brother.
“I’m sorry,” Gerard says, dipping his head in shame. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. It wasn’t me, it was-”
“Your nature,” Mikey says easily, sounding a bit dumbfounded. “I know.”
“I-I’m sorry for all the times I’ve shouted at you without meaning to,” he says in a rush, finally able to express the things that had been buried under that stupid battle of Sires. He looks up at his little brother with tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry for causing you so much pain over the years, years I should’ve been able to be there for you. You were going through so much, but I couldn’t get past my own nature to help you. Now, we’re more distant than ever and I can’t tell you how regretful I am of that fact.”
Mikey can only stare at him, unable to find the words to respond. Eventually, he stutters out, “Thank you, Gerard.”
And then the ocean waves recede, and jealous anger takes its place, and both the Ways turn to Frank as he slips from his stone bench, panting from effort.
“Are you alright?” Gerard asks, reaching to help him back up.
“Fine,” Frank insists, looking unsteady on his feet.
“What happened?” Mikey asks, hesitant to reach to help as well.
“Did you do that?” Gerard suddenly asks.
Without having to explain his question, Frank nods, allowing himself to be seated on the stone bench again. “I just- I felt so bad knowing that you two couldn’t speak properly because of you both being Sires, I thought if I could just suppress it for a while—”
“Suppress it?” Gerard repeats. Though he is unnerved, his chest fills with warmth at the idea of Frank trying so hard for him and his brother. “Is this some result of the bond?”
“It must be,” Frank says dismissively. He shakes off Gerard’s hand, then takes it in one of his, almost like a promise that he still wants him near.
“It seemed to take a considerable effort,” Mikey observes keeping his distance.
Frank nods. “I must assume that is due to Sires natures being so hostile toward one another. The strength of that hatred is not to be underestimated, apparently.”
No, Gerard thinks, it is not. There have been times in the past when he and Mikey almost hurt one another in their spats, times when Gerard nearly threw furniture at his dearest brother. Times when Mikey almost strangled him. The friction Sires ignite between one another is one of, if not the most difficult of the type interactions between vampires. Second only to the interactions between Vampirica Sire Violentia and Vampirica Carmilla Violentia, for hopefully obvious reasons.
“I’m alright now,” Frank insists, squeezing Gerard’s hand. “Just made myself dizzy is all.”
Two halves of Gerard war inside him; one is horrified and unnerved by the way Frank seemingly evolves and mutates his vampire powers and nature at will, and the other is warmed by the fact that Frank tried so hard to make it possible for Gerard to finally express his guilt to his dearest brother.
There is no room nor time for parsing through those feelings though. In fact, they are quickly covered up with annoyance and anger at Mikey’s mere presence. Both flare white hot when Mikey finally reaches to lend a hand to Frank should he need one to stand.
Gerard barely holds himself back from snapping something nasty at him, keeping his attention on the way Frank deftly marks his spot in his book and lifts the others into a stack. He doesn’t see whether or not Frank takes Mikey’s hand, it would only make it worse.
“So, to London then?” Frank says, brushing himself off. “Would you be coming with us, Mr. Way?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Mikey says, holding up his hands. “I would only make things… Tense, to put it kindly.”
Anger bounces through Gerard’s chest. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and contain it.
“I insist,” Frank says. “In fact, I think traveling to London with you is just what I need. I haven’t gotten more than a few moments with you since coming to the castle, and I have so much to ask of you, as someone who has been working with the duke much longer than me.”
Gerard stands, hardly able to accept what he has heard. “What? We can’t bring him with us.”
“I can bring whomever I want with me,” Frank corrects softly, but firmly. “And I don’t think I shall be taking you.”
There is no better word for the wound left in Gerard’s chest by these words than indignant. “Excuse me?”
“It is a research trip,” Frank says, as if this makes it all clear. “Mr. Way, your brother, is a researcher that works with the duke, which I have also become. Of any place to look for help gathering research materials, should it not be the very man that shares my position?”
“I don’t share your position,” Mikey corrects, somewhat harshly.
Frank eyes him. “Excuse my verbiage. I meant, the man that I will be working under.”
Mikey nods awkwardly, as if this correction will suffice. However, Gerard’s chest twists at the new phrasing, and he detests the idea of Frank “working under” anyone. Especially his own brother.
“The last thing I need,” Frank continues, “is the two of you fighting while I try to find my research materials.”
“Then don’t take him with you,” Gerard blurts out, his face warming at his own blatant jealousy.
“Gerard,” Frank says, and his name on the shorter man’s tongue soothes the jumbled mess of emotions in his mind. Frank takes his hands, and the skin he touches tingles as if he’s dipped his cold hands in warm water. “I am not choosing your brother over you. I simply need someone more familiar with the research the duke has already done so that I can refine my search. Choosing a senior member of the duke’s research team was always going to be my next step, it simply just so happens that your brother is that senior member.”
Despite wanting to refute the notion that he was worried of Frank choosing someone else over him, Gerard feels his shoulders relax. Perhaps something in his Sire nature was getting twisted up with their strange bond, because the reassurance feels as though it smoothes something over his chest, letting it lay plainly once again. Frank is not trying to make him jealous, and how laughable would that be if he were? As if Gerard could be jealous of anyone else when he can see through Frank’s very eyes if the other man allowed it.
The thoughts do unnerve him as they come, though. Frank, seeming to realize this, lets Gerard’s hands go again. They fall to his lap with an unceremoniously dull sound. The separation, for the first time, makes him feel a bit hollow. He curls his hands into loose fists, wishing Frank’s fingers were still there to clutch, imagines the feeling of his skin against his palms again.
“So we’re going to London, then?” Mikey asks, and his voice feels far off.
“If you’d like,” Frank replies. “We probably should ask the duke first this time, though.”
Mikey laughs. “Yes, I think that would be wise, given the outcome of your last trip.”
Gerard stands to follow them back to the castle, that hint of annoyance and jealousy calmed by the memory of Frank’s hands in his. Even the sound of his father’s voice cannot reach him.
“No.”
The duke’s response is precisely what Frank expected. This does not mean he is any less disappointed by it.
“Duke Von Stump,” Frank begins patiently. “I understand last time we completely ignored your authority and went over your head, leaving without even running the idea by you, but this time is different.”
“You’re right,” the duke says, his tone void of warmth and any care for Frank’s feelings. “This time is different. You are asking to go into London with a Sire you are not used to being around, to find literature on a topic neither of you are properly educated on, with no actual plan for where and when you will go to certain places or return.”
Frank bites the inside of his cheek to avoid saying something rude. “I understand that it sounds like a frivolous trip—”
“I rather thought it sounded like a dangerous one,” the duke interrupts, setting his quill pen back in its ink pot. The way he so stubbornly refuses to think of something differently makes Frank want to wring his neck a bit. “And I am not authorizing such a trip.”
“But I’ve broken the doctor’s hold,” Frank argues gently.
“Once,” the duke says, springing up a single finger. “Do it five more times and we might be able to come to an agreement on taking a trip to London.”
Anger boils in Frank’s chest. “I need to find more information than you have on how to care for plants, my lord, or Miss Hayley could become gravely ill.”
Resorting to honorifics was a bad idea. The moment the word slips from Frank’s mouth, the duke’s face sharpens yet again.
“Fine. I will send Mr. Way into London alone, and he can find the information you need.” The duke’s compromise is almost perfectly tailored to make Frank annoyed. Mr. Way will not know what to look for, and won’t know what Frank will find important to bring home with him. Only Frank, the Intellectual in this situation, could know for sure what information the duke already has on the topic, because he is the only one who has read every book front to back, save for the duke himself!
“I must ask that you reconsider,” Frank presses through gritted teeth.
And apparently the duke’s patience has been exhausted, because Frank feels cold steel loom over his mind. He need only think of the soft smile that graces Gerard’s face to keep it at bay, but the idea that the duke would try to exert some kind of control over Frank because he got tired of arguing fills him with rage.
“I will find my damn way to London if I have to dig my way out of this castle,” Frank declares, raising his voice and jabbing his finger in the duke’s face. “And you will not go back on your word over something so goddamn trivial!”
The words have their intended effect. The duke looks as though he has been slapped. He crumples into guilt, hiding his face in his hands and leaning his elbows on his desk. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Frank tries so very hard to feel sympathy for the duke, knowing that Sires must find it harder to combat their own natures when tired. But the realization that a promise like the one he made to Frank would be broken with barely a second thought makes him more than furious. Frank has to try so damn hard to break another vampire’s hold, reminding himself constantly of the importance of thinking for himself, of maintaining his passion for learning, and the duke makes a promise he doesn’t even intend to keep.
Are you alright?
Gerard’s voice floats to him over the air like a toy boat in a burbling creek. Frank imagines picking up his little sailboat, the message written on the sail.
Just reminding the duke who he’s trifling with.
Trifling, Gerard repeats grimly. Oh dear. Let me know if I should stop by.
He knows he was using it as an interjection, but the use of the word dear warms Frank’s heart slightly. Baby steps, he reminds himself. One day, Frank knows he will get there. But not too quickly.
“Is there anything I can do to prove I’m ready to go to London?” Frank asked, calmer as the duke continued to settle himself.
He can practically hear what the duke bites down on. No. “I suppose, if you were able to prove adept at breaking Mr. Way’s hold a few times…”
“Let me try,” Frank insists immediately.
“You wouldn’t be able to have the doctor around,” the duke warns. “And a Nobilis Sire is often the hardest of holds to break for Thrall.”
“I want to help Miss Hayley,” Frank says, reminding the duke of why this all is so important to him in the first place. “I will do whatever I must to help her.”
Despite these terms being his own, the duke struggles for a moment to accept them. Finally, he lets out a deep sigh. “Alright. Four sessions in a row, show me you can handle being alone with him. Then, and only then, I will authorize this trip.”
Four sessions in four days, Frank thinks. Easy.
Chapter 16: Silk
Summary:
The door to the bathroom opens, and Gerard is there, breathing only a bit heavy for having run all the way there.
And despite feeling comforted by his presence, or perhaps because of it, Frank begins to cry.
Chapter Text
He wonders if God takes pleasure in watching him struggle.
Their first session, Mr. Way sits with Frank in the garden, having been told the terms of allowing the trip and told exactly what he must do and how many times. At first, Frank is confident, because he has broken many a hold before, in record time apparently. He has reason to believe in his ability to do well quickly.
But then doubt creeps in. He has barely spent time with Mr. Way, only having seen him a handful of times since coming to the castle. And he remembers the first time they met, though not having known one another’s names. Mr. Way had ordered him around like yanking a puppet by its strings. Would he act like that now? And if so, would Frank even be able to keep up with his fast demands? He hadn’t before thought of the speed of commands before, what if he outpaced him?
His thoughts ground to a halt when he felt an unfamiliar presence in his mind. The duke often felt like steel or warm air. Miss Ballato had felt like a leash of sorts, or a snake. Miss Nestor had just been enchanting, her commands feeling the most like his own ideas. Gerard had felt all kinds of ways, yet almost never had Frank noticed his first command even taking hold. Mr. Way’s hold, Gerard’s younger brother, felt nothing like any of these things.
First, Frank felt as though a silk ribbon had slipped around his neck. Perplexed, he lifted a hand there, the sensation so foreign that he almost thought something had caught in the wind and landed there. Then, similar invisible silk wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and he realized with dread that he was, in fact, being strung like a puppet.
“Do you now why the Nobilis Sire has the hardest of holds to break for Thrall?” Mr. Way asks, and Frank’s throat will not open to allow him to answer. Mr. Way seems to take no pleasure in Frank’s obviously frantic spiraling mind. He adjusts his gloves on his hands, keeping his eyes away from the Thrall. “It is because we crave the power you allow us. We crave the feeling of owning pretty things, controlling vulnerable things, having power over something powerless.”
Frank tries and fails to scream, to flail, to do anything against these invisible bindings. He cannot manage even a faster breath.
Mr. Way finally meets his eyes. Behind them, emotions war. Sick satisfaction butts up against tremendous guilt and sadness. “Do try your best, Mr. Iero.”
He cannot do anything.
“Pick me a bouquet of roses, please,” Mr. Way says.
It is nothing like the previous holds he has fought against. This is not made to be his idea, nor does his brain try to rationalize why he should do what he says. He simply has no control over his body as he stands, walks to the nearest bush, and plucks a fresh rose from it.
A question is even pulled from him without his consent. “Should it be many colors?”
“At least three,” Mr. Way says, sadness lacing his voice.
It is as though Frank sits in a cage within his mind, watching himself go about the garden and gather three different colors of roses, taking care not to cut himself on the thorns, and gathers them into a bouquet. “Is this satisfactory?”
“It’s very good,” Mr. Way says with a nod. “Please get some red and black paper for it, and trim the stems, of course.”
“Right away.”
As though he is a butler, or some kind of valet, Frank is off toward the castle, bouquet in hand. He takes a turn toward the garden shed, somehow knowing exactly where the shears and paper are, and constructs the bouquet to Mr. Way’s specifications. He even ties a neat black bow around it with spare ribbon. Then, he is on his way back out to the garden, bouquet carefully cradled in his arms.
Frank presents Mr. Way with the bouquet. “Will that be all?”
Mr. Way takes the perfectly made bouquet. “Yes. Thank you.”
The ribbons slip from him as easily as they came. The absence leaves Frank with the overwhelming feeling of having been totally, completely, utterly violated. His body, moved against his will, his mouth, speaking for him, his entire person reduced to a servant. That, as he can clearly see now, is the power of a Nobilis Sire against a Thrall. No amount of intellectualism would combat that. Not when the power of his very limbs was taken from him with no care for control of his mind.
“I’m sorry if that was uncomfortable,” Mr. Way says quietly, hands tightening around the bouquet. “I’ve heard it can feel… disgusting.”
Disgusting was definitely among the words Frank would use to describe the feeling. But mostly, it just felt horrible. The knowledge that his ability to resist had somehow been completely removed… He felt sick.
Frank barely remembers what he muttered to excuse himself. He simply remembers feeling the overwhelming urge to scrub his skin deeply, to remove whatever creeping crawling insects seemed to have been left behind from those silk bindings. Miss Nestor eyes him worriedly when he asks her to please draw him a bath immediately.
When he finally sinks into the water, he waste no time before grabbing his sponge and going to work, rubbing the thing against this skin until it turns bright red and raw. He does not feel satisfied though, so he goes over everything again, paying extra attention to his wrists, ankles, and neck.
Finally, he lets himself sit in the freezing water, cooling the bright red skin he brought forth. He wonders absently how their skin turns red since their hearts don’t beat.
Under the water, holding his breath and trying to feel some kind of comforting oblivion against the memory of having no control in how his body was manipulated, he hears Gerard’s soft voice yet again.
What in the hell has made my brother so despondent?
The duke’s terms are that I must break Mr. Way’s hold four times in a row.
Instantly, Frank sees a flash of what Gerard sees. He is in the library, shoving books aside and rushing to get up. Where are you?
Scrubbing my skin off.
Another flash of Gerard’s whereabouts comes, he is running through the halls. Frank allows himself to smile at the fool of a man he loves.
I’ll be fine. He thinks the words with confidence but he isn’t positive they’re true.
I’m coming in.
Gerard’s response makes Frank come up for air, water leaving trails down his face. He hopes Gerard won’t mistake them for tears, which he definitely doesn’t feel prickling behind his nose and pressing into his eyes. The door to the bathroom opens, and Gerard is there, breathing only a bit heavy for having run all the way there.
And despite feeling comforted by his presence, or perhaps because of it, Frank begins to cry.
In barely a second, Gerard is knelt by the tub, arms around Frank, holding him close. Frank curls his arms around the other man’s neck, hiding his face and trying his hardest not to cry too loudly. The last thing he wants is for more people to hear of this.
Fingers card through his hair, making him sigh.
“I’m so sorry,” Gerard murmurs. “I wish I could have warned you.”
Frank has no idea how the descriptions have eluded him. He’s read every book on Thrall and Sires at this point, yet still the knowledge of what a Nobilis’s hold felt like to a Thrall had yet to be found. He wracks his brain, trying to find the missing information, and finally concludes that it must have been deemed too unnerving to even include in the duke’s research.
“I-I had no control,” Frank sputters, keeping his face pressed to Gerard’s poor soaked dress shirt. “All I could do was w-watch.”
Gerard’s arms around him tighten. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“H-how does someone even break a hold like that?” Frank sobs.
“With brute force,” Gerard answers simply, and sadly. “Though my hold is the final you are supposed to break, Nobilis Sire is likely to be the most difficult for your subtype.”
It’s no surprise to him why. Brute force, the idea fills him with dread. The only tactic he never practiced. The only thing he was unlikely to be able to strengthen quick enough to help Miss Hayley. Brute force his way through those soft, gentle silk ribbons. He imagines himself strung up by his limbs, thrashing violently, choking and screaming.
Gerard smooths his wet hair away from his face, coaxing him from his hiding spot. When their eyes finally meet, Frank’s eyes full of despair, Gerard’s hand on the side of his face, Frank imagines a world where this is the moment Gerard finally kisses him.
But Doctor Way is not so brave, as Frank well knows. Instead, the man’s face grows bright red, and he leans back another inch. Frank closes his eyes anyway, hoping it might embolden the other man. It does not, but it does help Frank gather his thoughts.
“The duke said you aren’t allowed to be present,” Frank says, reaching to wash his face with one wetted hand. When he opens his eyes again, Gerard is not looking at him, though he is clearly listening. He had moved his hands to his shoulders too. “But I have to get some kind of information for Miss Hayley. If her illness, whatever it is, worsens… I will never forgive myself if my own inability to keep control over myself is the reason she—”
“I will do whatever I can to find horticulture materials in the meantime,” Gerard promises, finally meeting his eyes again. “I can read German. I can’t speak it very well, but I can find books from the nearby towns for now.”
Frank feels a small bit of relief, his shoulders dropping slightly. “That’s a good start.”
“I’ll translate what I find,” Gerard adds. “So that you can still make some progress there.”
He hears the next sentence before it is spoken.
“But even if you didn’t need to get to London, I fear this would always have been the next step in your rehabilitation.” The boldest thing he can muster is tucking Frank’s hair behind his ear. “It will be hard work, and I fear it may ruin your happy summer attitude, but if you can get through this, you can get through any kind of hold.”
Gerard pulls him forward to rest against his shoulder once again. Frank melts against him.
“And I know you can get through this,” Gerard says, his breath tickling Frank’s ear and making his skin tingle. “You’re a force of nature in your own right, Frank. You can do this.”
Chapter 17: Weekes
Summary:
"I’m not exactly known for my strength.”
At this, Mr. Urie’s eyes skate across his body, as if examining for himself Frank’s perceived strength. Frank hopes he doesn’t see his ears turn pink. “I think you’re likely still stronger than I was.”
Chapter Text
Four sessions in four days. Frank sighs, pressing his fingers down onto the pearly white keys of the pianoforte. A discordant melody cries out from inside the instrument. What a fool he had been, so confident and sure.
“Are you back to practicing?” Miss Nestor asks politely. She is standing behind him, her hands gently folded in front of her. She’s followed him from the library to the castle courtyard, until he finally settled himself in the Blue Room at the pianoforte.
The room hasn’t been in as much use, usually only if the day is late or early. More of the castle’s residents have been waking, and Mr. Urie has taken to spending as much time as possible among the beautiful naiads of the lake. As for Mr. Toro, he has been off in meetings with Miss Ballato, apparently about his type and subtype still being unknown. Gerard, right now, is catching up on notes and replying to what letters have made it to the castle.
So, of course, this leaves Frank to sulk in relative seclusion in the Blue Room, dreading the next meeting with Mr. Way.
He hasn’t tried again since four days ago. He cannot stomach the idea. Gerard had been different, the warping of reality and his thoughts, a battlefield he was familiar with. This kind of fight, the helplessness of knowing he could do nothing, was foreign and unwelcome.
“You know, I’ve been brushing up on my violin in case you decided it was time to try learning the song,” Miss Nestor says, a nudge in a happier direction.
He’s glad for it. “I do still want to learn the song.”
“That’s convenient, because I’ve made up the sheet music for you to use,” Miss Nestor says with a bright smile. She takes the pages from the tea table behind her and sets them up on the pianoforte’s stand.
Just then, the doors to the Blue Room burst open. Frank turns to see Mr. Urie enter with a dramatic huff of air, accompanied by the potential reason for such a long-suffering sound; His hair is an absolute mess.
“What’s happened?” Frank asks, almost adding to you at the end, but thinking better of it. Mr. Urie would not like a reminder that he looks out of sorts.
Mr. Urie starts, turning to them and smoothing his hair. “Pardon my intrusion. I just…”
Both Frank and Miss Nestor frown in concern when he struggles to compose himself.
“I just met with someone I… I never thought I’d see again,” he says. He falls into one of the plush chairs, folding himself over his lap and dropping his head into his hands.
Frank and Miss Nestor both are at his side in a moment, Frank putting a hand on his shoulder and Miss Nestor rushing for the tea cart to make him something.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Frank asks quietly.
When Mr. Urie looks up at him, Frank is alarmed to see tears beginning to stream down his cheeks. “I don’t know.”
Frank kneels down at his side, just as Miss Nestor fills the space he had been in with a freshly poured cup of lukewarm tea.
Mr. Urie takes the cup, though only holds it in his lap. “Before I… Well, before I was turned, I knew someone very special. He was…he was a precious friend to me, then.”
Frank moves to the chair beside him, unsure how best to comfort the other man.
“But then, when I turned, I knew I would never be able to watch him age and die,” Mr. Urie says. His fingers shake where they cradle the teacup. “So I left him. I told him nothing, I couldn’t bear to face him in my new, fragile state of mind. So I left without a word.”
“That must’ve been very hard,” Frank says.
“For me, yes, of course,” Mr. Urie says. “But I had hoped, with a clean break, that he would not suffer very badly. I figured he might assume I was just too frivolously minded to stick around very long, too afraid of settling down. But then…”
“He’s here?” Frank says, realizing it must be true. “At the castle?”
Mr. Urie nods, sadness washing over him again. “And he is not happy with me.”
“How did he find you?” Miss Nestor asks, her thumb nail between her teeth. She is understandably very troubled at the idea of some random human appearing at the castle doors.
“He didn’t find me,” Mr. Urie says glumly. “I found him.”
Miss Nestor shifts on her feet, but Frank is confused now. Hadn’t Mr. Urie said, or at least implied, that he is at least several decades older than Frank? And if that were true, how could a human who used to be affiliated with Mr. Urie in some way end up working or living at the castle without the duke realizing?
And of course, his brain catches up just in time for the answer to nearly throw the Blue Room’s doors off their hinges.
Frank has only ever seen one werewolf before, and it wasn’t exactly in the best lighting. Mr. McCracken had appeared a hulking, lumbering beast, walking on four legs, hunched in the dark. Frank remembers the glint in his eyes, surrounded by pitch black. Those eyes often appeared in his nightmares. But this werewolf is nothing like Mr. McCracken. In the light of the castle’s artificial day, Frank can see every horrific detail his brain had filled in where darkness once was. This one stands on two legs, his body caught between beast and man, fur and skin impossible to distinguish yet horrifically separate. His face is elongated, teeth long and sharp, eyes blazing orange. His fingers are long and gnarled, sharp claws where nails would’ve been.
“Good God!” Miss Nestor shouts, stumbling away.
“What in God’s name-?!” Frank says without meaning to, standing from the chair and smacking his shin on the tea table in his hurry to get away.
“Dallon, stop!” Mr. Urie cries, curling up and covering his head with his hands.
“Vicious liar!” the monster roars, and the rattling noise coming from his chest sends Frank onto his back.
“I didn’t lie to you!” Mr. Urie insists, or perhaps pleads.
“A villa in France,” the beast growls, curling his impossibly large body over the cowering Mr. Urie. “That is what you said. The lap of luxury, surrounded by beautiful gardens, the very Palace of Versailles!”
Frank’s eyes go wide. No wonder Mr. Urie is having his next mansion built in Spain. He would be surprised if the Versailles Palace wasn’t burning rubble by now, if the level of violence in the reports of France’s revolution were to be believed.
“Weekes,” another voice calls, this one striking the slightest familiarity in Frank’s mind. He imagines it gruff and lumbered and realizes it must be Mr. McCracken’s voice. His human voice.
The leering beast turns his ire toward the doorway he blew open, teeth still bared, hot angry breath blowing back the long black hair of the man now standing there. He looks a bit disheveled, not that Frank is trying to be rude. His hair is loose at his shoulders, his shirt mis-buttoned, his trousers seemingly a size too large, and one shoe is untied. He is not aiming to make good impressions, nor look at all civilized, really. Seeing as Frank knows what he looks like during a full moon, he withholds his judgements.
“You’re making a hell of a mess,” Mr. McCracken says tiredly.
“He is here!” the beast bellows, claws curling viciously toward the man’s head. “He lied! He promised we would never meet again!”
“And you promised you would learn to control your temper,” Mr. McCracken says, a lethal edge finding his tone. “You are not supposed to be transformed outside our designated pack area. You are putting your whole pack in danger right now.”
The werewolf’s temper seems to simmer down, the man’s words sinking in. He settles to the ground, leaning on his fists, huffing angry breaths.
“Either control yourself and find your senses, or blow off steam on our side of the grounds.” Mr. McCracken’s words are final, and the manner in which he speaks reminds Frank of the duke.
The werewolf man’s breathing begins to steady, and soon he is shrinking in on himself. Frank cannot tear his eyes away as he slowly seems to pull the beast back within himself, his mortal human frame overtaking overgrown bone and shedding fur in large clumps. It makes Frank sick watching it, but he finds himself captivated by the transformation. It must be horrifically painful.
Mr. McCracken looks toward the curtains Miss Nestor has hidden herself behind. “Please fetch him a blanket.”
Miss Nestor, glad to have avoided being eaten by a seemingly rampaging monster, nods and quickly removes herself from the room.
“Weekes,” Mr. McCracken says to the now-shivering, naked man before him. “I get that you’re mad. Believe me, I do. But you can’t go breaking the rules of the castle like that just because you’re upset.”
The man seems to mirror Mr. Urie where he still sits on his chair, curled up into a ball and hiding his face.
“The whole pack needs to follow those rules,” Mr. McCracken continues. “Else, we’ll get thrown out.”
“We’re not meant to be captives,” the man, whose name is perhaps Weekes, says.
“No,” Mr. McCracken agrees, his tone turning soft as he kneels down before him. “But we are a pack of misfits, wolves with no proper territory to call our own. We wouldn’t survive as a pack out there if we can’t even agree to follow the rules in here.”
The man seems to slump within his curled-up ball. “I just wish for freedom from… all this.”
“I know,” Mr. McCracken says.
Miss Nestor shows back up with a folded blanket, which Mr. McCracken takes to drape over the man’s shoulders.
“Let’s get you back, you’re in no shape to have whatever argument set you off in the first place.”
The man stands and leaves with him without a word, Mr. McCracken keeping an arm around his shoulders though he is a fair bit taller than him.
The three of them wait much longer than they likely need to before speaking.
“I apologize for my completely inappropriate reaction,” Miss Nestor says, smoothing her skirts. “Though I admit, I doubt I will ever get used to living with werewolves.”
“Wh-why didn’t anyone intervene?” Frank asks, standing dizzily. He means the duke or Gerard, or someone else that might have been able to physically stop a rampaging werewolf, not her. Thankfully, she seems to understand his meaning in his bewildered expression.
“Pack arguments are handled by the pack,” she says, fiddling restlessly with her gloves. “The duke and Doctor Way wouldn’t have said a single word, much less lifted a finger. It’s part of the duke’s agreement of allowing them to stay here. He will not get involved with their business so long as they do not attack or otherwise harm the other residents.”
“He very nearly attacked Mr. Urie,” Frank protests, finding that in the absence of fear he feels rather outraged. “He damaged the doors! I feel like this hardly counts as a pack argument!”
“I never said I agreed with it,” Miss Nestor replies shortly. “You asked why no one intervened, that is why.”
“It’s not really a pack matter anyway,” Mr. Urie says, startling them both. “It’s a personal one. The duke wouldn’t have wanted to insert himself into that either.”
Frank returns his attention to the seated man, uncurled from his protective posture, revealing the teacup and saucer still sitting in his lap, not a drop spilled. His body is still laden with sorrow.
“I didn’t want to air everything out,” Mr. Urie mutters. He looks to Frank defensively. “I’m not a liar, at least not to you.”
“I-I never—” Frank stops himself, because he absolutely had thought it.
“When I left after being turned, I came here to the duke’s castle,” Mr. Urie says. “Then I got a letter from an old friend that Mr. Weekes had been attacked too. I thought, foolishly, that we might have become the same kind of unholy being. I raced back to London, only to find that not only had he become something infinitely more terrifying, but he also had been deeply hurt by what I’d done.”
Naturally, Frank thought as quietly as possible.
“So we fought, and I promised him I would put myself as far away from him as possible,” Mr. Urie finished with a sigh. “I told him I would be in France, at the palace, and he would never see me again.”
“But clearly, things have changed,” Frank says. “It’s a misunderstanding, you didn’t come here on purpose.”
Mr. Urie makes a noncommittal noise.
“I’ve heard the stories coming out of France,” Frank insists. “I’ve read the papers. If you’d have stayed, you would’ve been killed.”
“And it’s not like you knew he was being housed here,” Miss Nestor adds.
At this, Mr. Urie finally nods. “I suppose.”
“Once you explain, I’m sure he’ll see reason,” Frank says, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Urie says, looking longingly into his teacup.
Despite his encouraging words to Mr. Urie, he gladly accepts his company while they both ignore the things they’re scared to face. Mr. Urie has shown him to another sitting room in the castle, one the residents more often use in the spring and summer, called the Knitting Room. It is called that, he is told, because a long time ago, the duke’s wife used to spend her hours knitting there.
“Wife?” Frank repeats. He isn’t sure why the information surprises him so much. Perhaps it is just that the duke seems so reclusive when it comes to his personal life, or that he has never once imagined the duke as a married man.
“She was human,” Mr. Urie says, fit to leave it at that. It does tell Frank mostly what he needs to know. She was his wife, he probably loved her very much, and then she died. Because she was human, and he is immortal.
“I see.” Frank turns his attention to the Knitting Room, taking in the mostly bare wooden floors and the lighter, fluttering curtains. He supposes that with Miss Ballato’s magic, they don’t have much worry for actual sunlight coming through the windows and burning them, but it still seems a reckless thing to have in a castle full of vampires.
The whole room is styled a bit earlier than the Blue Room, which makes sense if this is old enough for the duke (who Frank assumes is around a century or two old) to have named it after his wife’s knitting habit. The wood floor is thickly lacquered and light, the sofas are just as plush but much more elaborately carved and a bit less floral and colorful, as are the tables and chairs. The walls are carved of wood as well, matching the flooring seamlessly, with alternating panels painted a soft green color.
There is one fireplace in the room, though not because it is too small for two. One side has the fireplace, and the other has what appears to be some kind of table with a bowl of ice built into the center of it. As Frank approaches it, he feels the temperature in the air go down just a bit.
“It’s for the hotter summer months,” Mr. Urie says, reclining on the nearby sofa and letting out a long sigh. “I wish I had a fan sometimes, like women do in the summer.”
“Why not just ask Miss Nestor for one?” Frank asks, somewhat teasingly, but also somewhat genuinely. Who cares? Living in a castle so far from regular civilization offered them a respite from the day-to-day routine of keeping up manners. Using a woman’s fan wasn’t even that ridiculous a notion. It made more sense than wearing a woman’s clothing, certainly.
Mr. Urie does not laugh as Frank expects him to. Instead, he begins to sulk, resting his chin in his palm and staring off at nothing.
Frank walks to the window nearest him, a tall, thin collection of panes that shines them both with Miss Ballato’s artificial light. He leans closer so he sees through it, peering out at the castle grounds. From where they are, he can see a courtyard he doesn’t recognize swallowed by the night. He wonders who frequents it, if that might be where the werewolves spend their time in the day. He tries to create a map in his mind of where the werewolves domain within the castle is, in relation to this new courtyard, but is immediately confused. The size of the castle, the full scale, is still mostly unknown to Frank.
“What if it had been day?” Mr. Urie asks, scoffing at him when he leans back into the artificially lit room.
“I knew it wasn’t,” Frank says. “Miss Ballato would have let us know with an artificial sunset.”
“She isn’t infallible,” Mr. Urie says under his breath. Then he lets out another deep sigh.
Frank notices an old wicker basket by the doors they entered through, full of yarn and knitting needles. As he gets closer, he notices a very thick layer of dust that sits on top of the knitting tools. He thinks better of touching them, turning instead to the fireplace side of the room.
“I don’t think I can speak to him,” Mr. Urie says quietly, almost too softly for Frank to hear from the other side of the room.
“I’m not any better,” Frank admits. The idea of returning to attempt to break Mr. Way’s hold makes his skin prickle with anxiety. Then, he remembers that Mr. Urie is a Thrall like he is, and turns to him with renewed hope in his eyes. “Mr. Urie, you must have managed to break Mr. Way’s hold, yes?”
Mr. Urie turns to him with wide eyes. He seems instantly afraid. “Y-yes.”
“Could you teach me how to break it?” Frank asks, returning to his side of the room. “The first time was so awful, I keep having nightmares about being completely out of control of my own body. How did you ever get over something like that?”
Mr. Urie stares as he rambles on, before his mouth sets into a thin line at his question. “I didn’t.”
Frank blinks at him. The memory of Mr. Way arriving to the Blue Room so long ago comes to mind, and the way Mr. Urie reacted with… sadness? “I need help breaking his hold or I’ll never be able to leave this castle.”
Even without knowing the full story, Mr. Urie seems to understand perfectly. “It is torturous.”
Frank waits for him to continue, sitting across from him on the matching sofa.
“The first time is always the worst,” Mr. Urie says. “With all holds, that was my experience. I had to work much harder than you did to break each type, from each vampire in the castle. The hardest, of course, had been the doctor’s. But the most… violating, was definitely his brother’s.”
The memory of the silk ribbons filled his mind. “Wh-what did it feel like, for you?”
“Like iron chains around my throat and wrists,” Mr. Urie says, causing Frank to frown. “I felt like a prisoner, my body used for whatever Mr. Way commanded of me, completely helpless to stop it.”
“Iron,” Frank repeats, confused. “To me, it felt like… Silk.”
“Silk?!” Mr. Urie exclaims. “Why’ve you gotten silk when mine felt like iron?”
“If I knew,” Frank trails off.
Mr. Urie gives him a jealous look before huffing and continuing. “Well, anyway, it took a very long time to work up the strength to break free of his hold.”
“How long?” Frank presses. “I need to be able to leave the castle so I can help Miss Hayley.”
Mr. Urie eyes him warily. “It took me six months.”
Six months? Frank feels faint. “Th-that can’t be right.”
“It will take you far less time, I’m sure,” Mr. Urie says quickly. “You’re clearly stronger than I was back then.”
“But Gerard— I-I mean Doctor Way, he said it is broken with brute strength,” Frank stutters out. “I don’t— I’m not exactly known for my strength.”
At this, Mr. Urie’s eyes skate across his body, as if examining for himself Frank’s perceived strength. Frank hopes he doesn’t see his ears turn pink. “I think you’re likely still stronger than I was.”
Frank begins to try and refute this, but Mr. Urie sits up properly to look him in the eye.
“Listen, Mr. Iero. Strength or no, the most important thing to remember while you’re struggling against his hold is that you are entitled to your autonomy.” The severity with which Mr. Urie speaks these words fills Frank’s chest with dread. “You will feel as thought you are powerless, but you are not. No man can control you, not even God by his own word. If you meditate on that, you will surely pass this test faster than I did.”
Instead of pointing out that it was man’s own hubris that won them free will, Frank nods, hands curled into fists on top of his knees.
Chapter 18: Fighting Fire With...
Summary:
“Hm?” Mr. Way turns his positively pitifully sad gaze toward the shorter man.
“How in God’s name,” Frank begins again, loud enough to be heard this time, “am I supposed to do this?”
Chapter Text
“I will be but a thought away.”
The words reassure him, fill him with determination, gift him the feeble promise of some sort of protection or contingency. Frank nods, reaching to squeeze Gerard’s arm in thanks.
To his surprise, Gerard lifts his hand as Frank’s falls, capturing his fingers between them. “I mean it. Call for me if you start to panic, or even just if you want to stop.”
Frank’s hand, arm, shoulder, chest, neck, and finally face all warm in succession. He smiles. “Alright. Thank you.”
Gerard nods, letting Frank’s hand drop.
Frank turns back to the doors of the Blue Room, building his willpower from within once more. Today, he will once again face Mr. Way and attempt to break his hold. He waits patiently behind these doors for Frank, whom he can most certainly hear on the other side of them.
It took Frank another entire day to work his courage back up. And even then, it took Gerard’s promise to wait outside for him to feel comfortable attempting it again. The memory still makes his skin crawl, fills his head with nightmares at night, sends him compulsively cleaning or sorting to remind himself that he is in control of himself.
Finally, Frank pushes the doors open to face his trial. Mr. Way waits by the pianoforte, teacup in his lap, no saucer to be seen. He is dressed for a funeral, as usual. His hair, though short, casts enough of a shadow over his eyes for Frank to feel alright approaching him.
The last moment he can, he turns to watch the doors close. The sight of Gerard bringing his fingers to his lips, seemingly deep in thought, brings a new, bright feeling to Frank’s chest. He can do this. He has backup. His backup is absently worrying over him. It feels good.
“Mr. Iero.” Mr. Way’s voice makes him jump. When he spins around to face him again, he seems to have left all his strength and determination in the hallway.
“Mr. Way,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. What’s the most polite way to address someone again?
“Tea?” Mr. Way offers, gesturing toward the other side of the room, where a tea tray and a few plates of treats have been left on the table.
“N-no, I’m alright, thank you,” Frank says. He has no chair to sit in across from him, so he sits next to him on the sofa. Though, he isn’t sure there didn’t used to be a sofa across from this one, and suddenly wonders if this seating has been intentionally arranged.
Mr. Way sighs, peering down at his teacup. It barely has a sip left in it.
Frank’s mind runs rampant with questions, some he cannot ask and some he should not ask. Questions about why certain holds feel a certain way to one vampire, but entirely different to another. Questions about why the Nobilis and his way of holding and controlling is so different to other Sires. Questions about how it is possible for holds to be broken at all, why nature does not just decide for them what they all are made for, why God himself hasn’t decided vampires and all other unholy beasts should be erased from the earth. Mr. Way cannot answer these questions.
And questions become irrelevant the moment Frank feels silk slither over his skin.
“I’d like more tea,” Mr. Way says sadly. “My cup is nearly empty.”
Frank stands and finds no purchase in his mind as he tries to grab onto his silk bindings. Perhaps, he thinks while his body walks across the room, the hold’s nature depends on the Thrall’s capability. Perhaps, he thinks as his body picks up the tea tray, his bindings are silk where Mr. Urie’s were iron because iron is straightforward and clear in how to destroy it. Heat and repeated striking should do the trick, much like Mr. Urie’s description of his attempts to break it. Frank, on the other hand, who is currently pouring a fresh cup of tea for Mr. Way, has silk, which is unnaturally strong for such a delicate fabric. How does one “break” silk? It must rip, or burn, from Frank’s understanding.
“Thank you,” Mr. Way says, quite miserably.
“You’re welcome, sir,” Frank says.
Pulling on the silk only tightens the bindings, and his fingers in his mind slip as he tries to rip the fabric.
“It’s quiet today,” Mr. Way says, looking around the room.
“Shall I play you something?” Frank offers. His hand gestures toward the pianoforte, pulling the silk free from Frank’s fingers in his mind.
“That sounds lovely,” Mr. Way says with a nod.
Mr. Way sips his tea as Frank sits himself at the pianoforte, resting his fingers on the keys.
And all at once it is as if Frank’s mental strength, and perhaps his physical strength as well, have left him. He can only watch as he plays a light melody, creating a beautiful atmosphere for Mr. Way as he finishes his fresh cup of tea.
When he is done, the silk slides from his wrists and ankles and throat, and Mr. Way simply sighs as he stands to leave.
“How am I supposed to do this?” Frank whispers to himself, staring at the pianoforte.
“Hm?” Mr. Way turns his positively pitifully sad gaze toward the shorter man.
“How in God’s name,” Frank begins again, loud enough to be heard this time, “am I supposed to do this?”
Mr. Way watches him for a while before letting out yet another deep sigh. “You cannot expect to be immediately adept.”
Frank turns on the bench to look him in the eye, still fascinated by the lack of any kind of feeling when he meets them. “I’ve made no progress.”
“This is only the second try,” Mr. Way says, shrugging. “Mr. Urie took—”
“But I’m better than him!” Frank insists, anger flaring. Instantly, he knows it is Gerard’s proximity, the Sire he shares a bond with, whose powers and nature he often shares, that brings the sentence out of him. Because who is he to say something like that about Mr. Urie? About any man?
Mr. Way however, being a Sire, understands completely. “You cannot be the best at everything.”
I can, I will, I must, Frank thinks stubbornly.
“I must have missed something,” Frank insists.
Gerard watches him from the floor of the library. They have left all formality at the door today, Frank barging into the library still in the middle of repairs, coat missing, sleeves rolled up, his top button of his shirt undone. His hair is a mess as well, which Gerard assumes is because he has been sleeping poorly. Perhaps struggling through his own notes on the subject of breaking holds. Gerard, for his part, is dressed casually in pants and a dress shirt as well, and has decided his sorrow feels toward the other man would be better soothed laying flat on his back staring at the ceiling. It has not been working.
“There must be something,” Frank growls, shoving books across the library table and throwing open a new one. “Someone, somewhere, must have an answer!”
The search for answers, the insistence upon finding it. Gerard finds this, in some way, a good sign. At least he is deeply drawing from his nature to cope with this predicament.
For the past few days, Gerard has been going into the nearby village in search of any horticulture books he can find. Troublingly, he has only found people time and time again telling him to go ask the village’s governor. One person told him to venture into the forest and that he would come upon a castle filled with terrifying monsters, but that they would likely know better than any in the area. Needless to say, no progress has been made.
“Fuck it all!” Frank shouts, throwing a book across the room, nearly hitting Gerard on its way to the ground. “There is something I’ve missed, I know it!”
Another time, when he would be feeling less downtrodden, Gerard would have gotten up, tried to soothe the other man, tell him they would find it, they just needed to keep looking. But today, he feels it would be easier to melt into the rugs he is laying upon.
“Fuck!” Frank falls into a chair, pressing his palms into his eyes. “Fuck…”
“Fuck indeed,” Gerard mutters.
He shuts his eyes as well, drifting further from the library and separating himself from reality in his mind. He feels himself in a clear river, shining like jewelry, floating aimlessly and lazily, the soft feeling of sunlight on his face. And suddenly, in his mind, his floating body runs into something.
Solid as flesh, curled into a ball in the middle of the river, is Frank, or his mind, or some manifestation of him there. He has his fists in his hair, muttering his frustrations, the river soaking his pants and most of his shirt. Feeling off-kilter, Gerard stands in the river, the water sloshing over the other man. The sun above is bright, but not hot. The land around them is lush, but not treacherous. Everything about this place is beautiful and ideal.
Except, of course, for the two men making a mess of the riverbed.
“Frank?” Gerard says softly, reaching a hand out.
“Stupid, stupid,” Frank is muttering. “Why can’t I remember?”
“You are not stupid,” Gerard says firmly. “Please, stand up.”
“I don’t— I can’t—!” Frank throws his fists into the water, splashing everything around him. “I’ve had it! I can’t remember what I need to know! I’ve read every book on the subject and nothing is helping! Nothing tells me what I need to know, why can’t there be something I can find that will fix this?!”
Gerard is distracted by the way the land around them reacts to Frank’s outburst. The trees shudder, the grass wilts, the water dims. The sun is blocked by a cloud, leaving Gerard to shiver in the darkness made.
Suddenly, Frank sniffles, and thunder rumbles overhead. His broken whisper accompanies the small drops of early rainfall. “Why am I not good enough?”
Gerard kneels next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder as rain starts to fall in earnest. Frank reacts by tightening his ball around himself, pulling his knees up and curling his arms over his head. He cries, and Gerard simply waits by his side, an arm around his shoulders. The rain pelts them, though Gerard does his best to keep the brunt of it on himself instead of the other man. The river slowly grows in size, flooding the banks, raising the water level around them. A particularly rough sob prompts Gerard to press his thumb into Frank’s shoulder, letting him know he is there if he needs him. And for the first time, Frank realizes he is not alone. He jumps, uncovers his head, looks up at Gerard, and crumples once more, this time into his arms.
“I’m not good enough,” Frank stammers through his sobs, gripping Gerard’s sleeves as he pushes himself into his embrace. “I’m not good enough! I can’t do this, I will never be able to help Miss Hayley, I will be stuck in the castle forever, I—!”
“Frank,” Gerard says, a touch of scolding in his tone. “You are capable of anything and everything you set your mind to. I still firmly believe that. There is nothing that is impossible to you.”
Frank is shaking his head, the words cannot form, and Gerard feels anxiety spark in his chest as he leans down to kiss his head. The action stills him, calms him.
“It will take time,” Gerard says, hoping Frank cannot tell how tense he has made himself. “It will take effort. It will take training. There is no easy way out, you simply have to fight, and fight hard.”
“Fight fire with fire, as it were?” Frank says through a weak laugh.
“Precisely,” Gerard says into his hair.
A moment passes where all they do is revel in closeness. Frank is content to stay there, while Gerard counts the seconds before the echo of his father’s palm will find his cheek and make him pull away. Yet instead, Frank suddenly pulls back, eyes bright like he’s just realized something.
“Fire,” he says, as if it is an answer to a question Gerard has not heard. “Fire!”
The sky is bright now, the clouds long gone, and they are not going to be dry anytime soon due to the river, but the plants around them bloom happily at Frank’s change in disposition.
“Yes?” Gerard says, smiling despite his confusion.
“Yes!” Frank says excitedly, gripping Gerard’s arms. “Fire! Silk can only be broken with sharp objects or fire! I cannot rip it with my own two hands, there is no way in hell to rip it by hand, and finding a knife, something sharp— well, actually I haven’t quite tried that yet, but fire! Fire would burn through easily!”
“Like anger?” Gerard asks. He had never quite understood the mechanics of breaking holds, he only knows how to impose them and what it feels like to have them broken. Reading accounts of breaking holds is surely nothing like breaking one yourself. He knows it sometimes sounds like solving a very difficult riddle, though.
“Friction,” Frank corrects, and he sounds a bit mad with something. Perhaps happiness, perhaps only the kind of happiness that comes from solving a very large, complex puzzle. “Friction, maybe sparks from something metal, anything that might cause heat to increase.”
“So it’s physical?” Gerard asks, quite lost.
“Always!” Frank exclaims with a smile.
The door to the library opens and pulls them both violently from that beautiful place shared in their minds. The duke stands in the doorway, Miss Nestor at his side, both wearing concerned expressions.
And why shouldn’t they? Frank has his head on the table and Gerard is lying on his back on the floor. Gerard begins to laugh and Frank springs up from his chair, his face alight with renewed energy, and the duke and Miss Nestor continue to stare with wide eyes.
“Fire!” Frank yells excitedly, tripping over his book piles to run and find a fresh page to write on. Then, he trips over Gerard’s leg, making them both shout.
As Frank is sent sprawling on the library floor, Gerard curls around his kicked leg, laughing like a madman.
“Fire?” the duke repeats slowly.
“Ow, yes,” Frank says, clumsily righting himself again. “Fire! Silk, fire!”
Miss Nestor glances between Frank and Gerard nervously, and good Lord it makes Gerard laugh harder. His stomach hurts.
“Alright,” the duke says, nodding. “Um. Good.”
SuperstoreStoner on Chapter 1 Mon 05 May 2025 05:07AM UTC
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Damaged_by_love on Chapter 2 Tue 01 Apr 2025 01:10AM UTC
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HelgaSinclairWasMyFirstCrush on Chapter 2 Tue 01 Apr 2025 04:00AM UTC
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HelgaSinclairWasMyFirstCrush on Chapter 7 Mon 05 May 2025 08:13PM UTC
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MKZ4345 on Chapter 7 Wed 07 May 2025 05:35AM UTC
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Kitty789 on Chapter 8 Sat 10 May 2025 09:16PM UTC
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VampNoise on Chapter 8 Sat 07 Jun 2025 09:24PM UTC
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punchedberries on Chapter 9 Wed 04 Jun 2025 07:14PM UTC
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punchedberries on Chapter 11 Sun 15 Jun 2025 08:41AM UTC
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Kitty789 on Chapter 11 Sun 15 Jun 2025 05:52PM UTC
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HelgaSinclairWasMyFirstCrush on Chapter 11 Mon 16 Jun 2025 10:21AM UTC
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MKZ4345 on Chapter 11 Mon 16 Jun 2025 05:08PM UTC
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Batobsessedloser on Chapter 12 Wed 25 Jun 2025 04:24AM UTC
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CalamitysDiary on Chapter 14 Sat 26 Jul 2025 08:15AM UTC
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punchedberries on Chapter 14 Mon 28 Jul 2025 08:33PM UTC
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Zesty_Artist on Chapter 15 Wed 13 Aug 2025 04:52PM UTC
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Zesty_Artist on Chapter 18 Sun 07 Sep 2025 07:58AM UTC
Last Edited Sun 07 Sep 2025 07:58AM UTC
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LoreHasLore (WeAreTheUsed) on Chapter 18 Mon 08 Sep 2025 04:28PM UTC
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