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A life experienced over two hundred and fifty years yields countless deaths. Human flesh clothed in materials bearing the mark of their God torn asunder. Soft organs ripped from their orifices, heads separated from their spines. Hearts which once beat so rapidly in sudden fear and panic, crushed like the delicately sweet dragon fruit his former mortal allowed himself when it came to indulgences every blistering day and comfortable evening. Those bodies turned so heavy, always heavy, like dropping stones into the deepest ends of a calm cenote. He killed them, brutalized them, gorged on their blood, all out of a need for vengeance. A need forced to quickly morph into a more primal, inherent hunger brought about his unwanted rebirth that he could not control. If the sight of a massacred conquistador did not bring him peace or closure, then it would have to satiate his new thirst instead.
Vampires on the other hand do not become heavy or stagnant upon death. Sunlight will burst the body into flames, a series of animalistic shrieks as the vampire’s final death rattle, followed by feeble insignificant ashes. Separating the head will turn the entire figure into a useless ragdoll. A careful strike through the heart will quickly dry the muscles and skin at an abnormal pace, transforming the vampire into a weightless, fragile husk. No eyes to see their prey, no blood to offer unto an unsuspecting and often unwilling sire.
All his immortal life, Olrox has only ever held two bodies with such tenderness and reverence upon their expectant deaths. Humans saw him as a monster to be eradicated. Vampires, particularly those of old world origins, a competitive threat to their own standing upon the hierarchy they so carefully maintained over centuries. The only moments when he bothered to graciously lay his hands on those whose souls he dangled along the reaper’s scythe for longer than they deserved was so they could see two things: his glowing eyes of jade and their own blood staining his fangs.
Olrox committed this cruel gesture for himself as well; like the dragon fruit, a vice or indulgence of his. How at long last, he was looking down at his enemies, not up. And should something or someone force him onto his knees, it would not be long before he raised himself back up again.
Then there was Abāsandeke. He who basks in the sun. Who shone brighter than any sun regardless of his confinement to the shadows, all in part due to Olrox. He who burned with passion, for the world, for the people, and for his companion. Until Olrox found him near their temporary home at the time, a consecrated dagger in his heart and a well-armed woman clad in indigo fleeing the woods. He would never know what exactly transpired between the vampire and the Belmont, what words were exchanged if any to begin with. All that mattered was how unbearably light San’s body felt in Olrox’s arms as it withered away into nothing. Still beautiful even as the blood completely drained itself and his skin turned to decayed parchment.
Though it would not save her in the end—nothing on earth would save her from Olrox’s retaliation—at least Julia Belmont had the decency to be merciful. So would he, but because of a promise he made. Do what he must. Take his vengeance, balance the scales of justice however he saw fit. But never return to what he once was. Olrox left Julia’s corpse in those streets along with her son, still far too young to ever meaningfully wield that piece of string, without a drop of blood touching his lips. All because of that promise. Wanton violence would not be his again. One cycle would end that night and if another had to take its place, Olrox left that up to the Belmont boy. It would be his decision to make.
The second dying body, now in his arms, is mortal. Despite Mizrak’s robust form and vigorous stature, he feels too light. There’s no struggle to carry him through the hall of an abandoned opulent Parisian apartment, nor do Olrox’s muscles strain to keep the monk raised. His legs gave out once they were across the Seine as Mizrak could no longer stay conscious for more than a few minutes. Olrox held his breath every time those warm eyes shut themselves in pain, before they opened again though more and more with reluctance each second that passed. Yet his pace remains gentle, even now as he enters the main chambers and a luxurious canopy bed waits before them.
He lays Mizrak atop the sheets, his head cradled by the soft pillows beneath. Part of Olrox begs him to turn away, just in case the memory of seeing his love when he was healthy and glowing ends up being his last, but refuses. He stares at the skin, pale and colourless, the tired darkness under each eye. The stench of blood coagulating around an open wound burns the inside of Olrox’s lungs. Finally, as if fighting one last time against an unseen force, Mizrak speaks.
“You’ve seen the devil, then. Waiting for me?”
Olrox sits on the bed’s edge close to Mizrak, placing his hand on the far side of his immobile body. As if to keep him from leaving so easily and so fast, like all those other uneasy instances set against a backdrop of the French countryside, even when he can’t. He contemplates telling Mizrak about Old Man Coyote, how he can very well be a devil to some yet at the same time an impartial entity in this complicated world of dead gods, tricksters, and fallen angels. But time and patience is needed to explain such a figure to someone whose entire life has been seeped in another faith for better and worse—time and patience which neither man has. Instead, Olrox tells him something akin to a white lie. It wasn’t the devil and he didn’t come for Mizrak. Perhaps someone else. Paris is still freshly awash in bloodshed and death after all. A careful distortion of the truth meant to comfort him.
Comfort is not enough to sway Mizrak. He claims the devil will come for him regardless because of his forced duty towards a sinful cause seeped in one man’s delusions of holiness. Because of how he desecrated his vows first out of curiosity then desire. Because of how he chose to love. Tears trickle from the corners of Mizrak’s eyes, his voice choked back as he makes what could be his final confession. Not to God, not to any angel but his words cannot afford to abstain themselves.
As long as someone knows how frightened he is of death.
The true self is always revealed when mortal life finally runs its course. Olrox listens to the monk’s admission, the last betrayal against his standing as a soldier of the kingdom of God. Because of this, quietly weeping over his fear of what comes next could be the bravest thing he’s ever done, even rivaling all that transpired before this evening. Listens, and feels a simmering rage build within him not felt since he held San’s withering body. Regardless of his bravery, Mizrak should never have to fear the prospect of death, never think about the possibility of his soul descending to Hell. He needs an afterlife of peace and freedom which he so rightfully deserves after everything. Olrox could say this. What awaits Mizrak is not an eternity of punishment and torment but instead a realm inconceivable to most written scriptures, where he will never again have to beg for absolution from his supposed transgressions.
He cannot. The very source of Olrox’s stoked anger. He can’t bring himself to give Mizrak another false hope. What only deepens his quiet, obscured fury is the inescapable fact that a being drenched in shadows will indeed have him. His warning delivered under a sky of darkened crimson will not save either man.
Olrox’s next decision comes as naturally as it did fifty years ago during a warm summer night when a passionate, intelligent Mohican hunter said he wanted to change the world with him by his side.
Fingers intertwine with Mizrak’s, now weaker than ever. He could have held those hands anywhere else in much better circumstances. Throughout the warm candle-lit summer streets of New Orleans, atop the blustery cliffs of Massachusetts, or amongst the towns nestled beneath the imposing yet protective shadow of Mount Tepozteco. Wonders of the so-called new world would have been theirs and they still could if Olrox takes his chance now. He calls the monk something which had only been reserved inside his own mind, meant to be saved for a kinder occasion. Two words Olrox couldn’t admit to weeks ago when he should have. It takes barely a second for Mizrak’s eyes to widen in unholy revelation as the vampire says with conviction, determination, and some personal clarity that the devil can be easily cheated.
Olrox expects a struggle. Baring his fangs and carefully lowering his open mouth, he braces for some panicked, uncertain retaliation from Mizrak despite his debilitated state. There’s a weakened cry of initial shock as he sinks into the monk’s flesh. It hurts because of course it does. He’s created a new entryway into the body where there was none before. Gentle penetration is still penetration. Mizrak continues to gasp and shudder, tears slowing their gradual pace down his pallid cheeks the longer Olrox drinks from him.
From the moment they met in that courtyard, their own twisted garden of eden, he believed there had to be some kind of righteous divinity in this world. Mizrak should have been looking for it within himself. Every trickle of his blood trickling down Olrox’s throat tastes divine, the sweetness of honey and the richness of pomegranates. He would consume him completely, drop by drop, as tenderly as he does so now, if the ritual didn’t require him to show restraint. There comes another taste which Olrox has never been able to properly describe in all his two hundred and fifty years. It doesn’t occur often, sometimes never, but Mizrak is another one of those rare exceptions. Not the fear of death, but the acceptance of transformation. He accepts Olrox because what else can he do?
Pulling away before Mizrak can go unconscious again, Olrox feels his wrist twitch and pulse, itself anticipating what happens next. He straddles the other man who stares up, his panting choked back by residual sobs. Olrox isn’t Erzsebet Bathory, he will never be the worthless Spanish smear on this world who made him drink scorching bile thus forcing him to forsake his beloved sun. Not with San, not with Mizrak. Removing his overcoat, making sure to slip out something precious he kept hidden within its interior pocket, he tears open the upper buttons of his shirt. He grips the object firm and steady, a relic from his days of terrifying empire. The only constant in his immortal existence. Obsidian dagger in hand, Mizrak’s faded eyes still fixated on him, he slices the tip in a single smooth motion across one side of his chest. Another scar destined to heal fast. Olrox presses his breast to make sure enough is drawn from the wound, not even hissing out of discomfort. Before he can hold the monk close, Mizrak finds the last of his strength to reach forward and stop him.
“If…” His voice rasps out, wincing with every syllable. “If I let you do this… will you promise me one thing?”
Olrox takes his outstretched hand and holds it to his lips. “Anything.”
Mizrak swallows hard. Remnants of his tears glisten in those eyes, which will soon no longer be their warm, deep brown selves. “Will my soul remain? Will I still have a soul?”
The very thing Old Man Coyote wanted most from him and from the Abbott. The reason why he turned away from Olrox so many times before. Raising him up from the cushions, he rests Mizrak’s head in the crevice between both breasts, stroking the back of his head. There may be some truth in his next proclamation. A vampire’s soul is as unknowable, as ever-changing, as their heart.
“Your soul will be stronger than ever. More beautiful. The most beautiful soul a vampire can possess. I promise you.”
He cups Mizrak’s strong jaw in both hands and guides him closer to the continual stream of blood. Gaze heavy, breathing even heavier, the monk finally gives himself over. Placing his lips over the open wound, he drinks. Wet sounds fill the room as his throat bobs with each steady gulp. The vampire keeps him close against his breast, unable to subdue his own groans. Such pleasure grows in frightening amounts when he notices a thin line of blood make its escape from the corner of the other man’s mouth. It dribbles along his jawline before staining the mark of God drop by drop. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t take a moment to gasp for breath. Mizrak tries holding onto Olrox’s waist for support but his limbs are still at their most frail.
Until something within Mizrak’s physical constitution finally shifts. Quick, undeniable, and nearly violent. His first look of doubtful resignation upon drinking from Olrox turns into a sudden ravenous hunger. Strength in both arms returns tenfold, holding the vampire’s back in a death grip. He wants more and he will have it.
Mizrak throws Olrox onto the bed, same as when he was tossed about in that musty little room in that discreet little inn. Only now, neither has to worry over possible neighbours whether mortal or otherwise. None will hear Mizrak as he tears into Olrox’s chest, his very body changing in drastic ways as the hunger grows more aggressive. Nor will they hear every wanton noise emitting from his maker, his companion, his greatest and most terrible lover. New claws rake at the silken sheets, sharpened fangs tear into soft flesh. More and more scars which will disappear come daylight.
This onslaught only slows itself when Mizrak begins to choke on all the blood he’s consumed in such a short yet impassioned time. He coughs and raises his upper body in an attempt to better clear his throat. What has he done? What has been done to him? What has he become? Olrox doesn’t bother wiping away the specks hacked out onto his face. He won’t feel disgust towards his own essence given back to him. Instead, he calms Mizrak from spiralling into distraught regret over his immediate impulses. Already his eyes shine with crimson. Part of Olrox will dearly miss the lovely brown.
“Don’t stop.” He says, running a thumb over Mizrak’s moist lips while holding his face in place. They cannot afford any distractions now. “Keep drinking. Don’t stop.”
Lulled into a sense of hazy compliance by Olrox’s voice, the former monk carefully lowers himself and continues though not for long. Slower and slower he moves his head, the pace of his feeding dwindling until the previous ravenousness is now a gentle suckling. Then nothing as Mizrak rests against Olrox, exhausted. Unable to speak, unable to move, unable to open his eyes. As they lie together in a pool of blood soaking through the bed, the other vampire cradles Mizrak’s metamorphosed body, tenderly kissing his forehead.
The arrival of night isn’t enough to keep either one conscious.
The sun casts a single ray of light into the room, illuminating every dust mote while the corners gratefully remain in darkness. Morning brings healed wounds, dry sheets, and a half empty bed. Both vampires have been awake for some time though without a single word spoken between them. Mizrak has already stripped himself of his bloodied robes, preemptively tossing whatever material he can afford to burn into the empty fireplace. The metal and chainmail, however, could be crafted into something useful. But as Olrox remains sprawled atop the bedsheets, watching a crimson draped man stare out into the bustling Parisian streets all while carefully avoiding the sunlight, he knows that Mizrak isn’t thinking about what to wear or how to repurpose his old armor.
His serpentine gaze wanders for only a second before noticing another masculine figure by the doorframe. Immediately, Olrox acknowledges that this interloper isn’t real, not even a ghost—more likely his own unkillable thoughts, doubts, and regrets made manifest—yet the sight is no less familiar to him. The internal visitor wears exactly what he wore when Olrox found him bleeding out, his once sturdy body close to withering. Long darkened auburn locks, some strands adorned with the very beads Olrox used to braid into his hair, now loose and surrounding Abāsandeke’s pained expression.
What have you done? He asks without speaking, yet Olrox can see the tips of his fangs past his slightly gaped mouth. My love, what have you done? Your promise—
Was to never again commit such needless violence. I’ve kept that promise.
This is not the first time Olrox has had to converse with himself in this manner. He predicts it won’t be the last.
This is another violence. Another cycle you’re starting.
Olrox looks to Mizrak, still standing by the curtains. It will be different this time.
You tell yourself such, but how will it be different? Do you truly believe that?
When Olrox doesn’t answer, San’s expression remains tender yet there is an undercurrent of desperation in his unnaturally golden eyes.
We were happy together. You were at peace. But it all ended in pain and suffering. A new cycle of violence.
Olrox ruminates on this, his shirt free of last night’s bloody indulgence but still torn open, before turning away from San in acceptance.
Vampires are creatures of habit, my beloved. I taught you that. It’s in our nature to want more. Even the need to love and be loved in return.
This one-sided exchange comes to an end when Mizrak turns away from the window. His bloodied eyes glow with dark intent, directed towards his maker. Olrox carefully sits up, never affording to break eye contact for a second. He doesn’t smile, there is no betrayal of true emotion on his face. But he is prepared. Ready for Mizrak’s impulses, his hunger, his unrestricted inhibitions. All the things which a newly born fledgling cannot control in their first hours of immortal life.
Fangs and claws bared, Mizrak lunges towards the bed, pinning Olrox down. Every breath comes out as a snarl. Giving it enough thought (whatever amount of time the moment will allow), Olrox puts forth his question.
“Do you love me, Mizrak?”
The other vampire’s expression twitches, revealing subtle horror at what he’s become and what he is about to do. “I do. I love you. And I hate you. These feelings, they… they anger me. But I’m also terrified by them.”
“I told you there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Olrox adjusts his position, further exposing himself to Mizrak. “Now drink. Take everything you desire from me. A new world waits for you.”
He means every word. Let Mizrak take what he needs and in turn, Olrox will take all that he desires from him as well. All his shame, his guilt, his regret, his carnal urges, his release from everything which once held his soul in chains. Mizrak’s fangs ravage his chest a second time followed by Olrox’s neck, stomach, and soon his exquisite inner thighs. With fresh blood staining his mouth, dripping down his naked torso, he rides the other vampire well past the point of climax. Throughout all of this, their marathon of bodily pleasures and continual fluids, Olrox doesn’t see Abāsandeke. No doubt for the best.
After what feels like a century of frenzied love-making coupled with instinctual, reciprocated feeding, the two men collapse in each other’s arms. Time will come for more important matters such as understanding Mizrak’s abilities and whether they should remain in Europe, let alone Paris. For now, he has one last thing to tell Olrox.
“From the moment I saw you, I knew you would ruin me.”
The feeling is mutual.