Chapter Text
Blood.
There was darkness, and pain. It burned. Hissed like tallow, melting soft and warm and slippery. Like flesh that charred beneath the brand. The splinters of bone in the ashes of the brazier, cracked for the marrow, ash upon the altar. Flame but no light, no heat.
Cold, and pain, and darkness, and—
Blood.
A drip. A torrent. One and the same.
Dry and metallic, a flood that soaked deep into sun-parched soil but left no moisture behind. There was no quenching, no relief—the thirst redoubled. Agony. Unbearable. Could not be tolerated. It wakened something terrible, an arid wasteland that grew and grew and grew only more desperate the deeper it drank. It cracked and dried and crumbled with its desiccation, and still it swallowed, still it took, still it found no solace against the terrible, terrible thirst—
Something opened its eyes. There was—light, the sun, not the sun, fire, dampness and smoke and pain and weakness. Its skin split, vision shattered, skull pulled open, laid bare—but it neither knew nor cared. It knew only that it was empty, that it was maddened by the desert—
It knew—it knew—
Blood.
The sleeper woke.
Sore, and in pain; but they stirred, faintly. And then a rush of blinding panic and violent hunger; and blood hit the back of their throat with a snap, and they were suddenly, terribly sane.
Awake. But not…not yet…present. There was some form of…disconnect. Of fragility…
Every muscle felt stretched taut, creaking around rigid sinew. Her skin ached with wounds, old yet fresh. Carvings, deliberate, not taken in battle; those had not been there, before torpor. Her chin and teeth dripped with hot blood—she registered the body of a mortal man in a security uniform with a sort of dull surprise—and yet her mouth was dry. Her movements were—abrupt. Too sharp. Uncontrolled.
She felt, they felt, weak. The sensation was no longer familiar.
And that bulb was too bright—
Broken glass tinkled faintly underfoot. The bulb buzzing outside the window was pure white—electric. The surroundings were stale. Fresh air had rushed in through the broken window; but the stench of decades of neglect did not vanish in a few breaths.
And that unpleasant smell of abandonment was…wrong, somehow, it was…and yet, why should it be? Dust and mothballs; cobwebs, mouse leavings, the husks of dead insects…those were nearly universal, in this kind of empty basement. A faint scent of rot. Mildew, and old wood. Blood, rapidly cooling, though that was not a clue. From outside—a hint of petrichor. Crisp, and muted. Snow? It would hardly be usual…
Mildew.
That was what had felt so wrong. The air was thick with it. This space was accustomed to humidity. To the cold and damp. Years of it. Decades, at least. It could not build this way, this thickly, in an arid climate.
“What…?”
Their voice rasped. Thirsty. Still, somehow. It had been years at least, then.
They had been in Damascus…
Out loud, they breathed: “Where am I…?”
As to that, a voice said softly, I couldn’t begin to speculate.
Their wordless shout of alarm rang in undignified echoes off the concrete.
The question had not been a conversation starter. Centuries of wandering made one comfortable with the sound of their own voice—it helped combat the lonely stretches, and control heightened emotions. They were alone in an abandoned basement. An answer was not expected.
They were not remotely happy to receive one anyway.
“Who speaks?!”
Steady, now, said the intruder. Keep your voice down…you have as much information as I do.
They snarled a warning. “And how do you know what information I have, or have not? Answer me.”
The voice took on a sardonic edge. Do you know, stranger, they do say patience is a virtue. You don’t know where you are? Imagine how I feel!
“I can imagine much,” they growled. “I wake from torpor, wounded, bearing marks I do not recognize with a voice in my head! Who are you?! Why do I hear you, how?”
Ah! Well. That I believe I can answer. Malkavian, I’m afraid. There was a good-naturedly apologetic tone to the explanation. Low, light; unforced and pleasantly masculine. I can’t say I’ve ever found myself trapped unwelcome in the skull of another Kindred! But, well. I also can’t claim to be entirely surprised. These things do tend to happen.
Malkavian. That was…understandable enough to calm them, if only slightly. “You say you have no knowledge of how you came to be here. You will forgive me if I am skeptical.”
Forgiven entirely, dear stranger. I would have trouble believing it myself. If you remember slipping into torpor, however, that’s already more than I can claim.
They tilted their head slightly. “Is this not some gift of your Blood, then?”
Oh, a gift, a curse, said the voice with badly-feigned cheerfulness. Six of one, half a dozen of the other! …But not of my doing. I can be certain of that much. Our gifts are ephemeral at best. This feels…
“...Settled,” they finished, and understood. The unwanted visitor was correct. There was none of the invasive pressure of Kindred telepathy; or the hazy sensation of possession. It would not be as simple, then, as merely severing a connection.
Precisely.
“This mark on my hand.” It was distinct from the rest of the carvings—blockier, less elegant. Older, cruder, and humming with power. “Do you know it?”
Silence.
Their hands curled into unconscious claws. “Do you know this mark, Malkavian—!”
I don’t. The answer was quiet but firm. But I felt a terrible spike of dread just now that I can’t explain.
It was more honesty than they had, perhaps, earned. “Then they are connected.”
Very possibly. I can nearly…The last I remember…I remember…
They waited, with what patience they could muster.
…Well, now, the voice said finally. I’m a man who normally appreciates a good puzzle, but…
They raised an eyebrow.
“I have known many of your Clan, Childe of Malkav,” they warned; but their initial defensive rage was beginning to subside. “You are rarely so mad as you claim. If you are hoping to be dismissed as such, reconsider.”
That earned her a quiet laugh. It was…warm. Sincere, so far as she could tell.
Difficult as it may be to believe, I appreciate that.
“Then explain yourself. What puzzles you?”
I’m sorry to say I wasn’t being metaphorical. The memories are there, for the most part. But the more recent they get, the more scrambled they become. Puzzle pieces, if you take my meaning. I’m nearly certain none are missing, but I have no guide to how they fit into the larger picture.
“Can you make no sense of them?”
Nonsense shapes and colors, I’m afraid! I’m making every effort to piece them together, but it’s going to take time.
“Mmm.” Slowly, deliberately, they relaxed their shoulders. “Take what time you need, then. I will…explore this place.”
Should I remember anything of consequence, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime—is there something I can call you? A name, a title perhaps? Terribly impertinent request, I know; but ‘stranger’ does feel somewhat impersonal.
“A title…?” They tilted their head, considering. “Before I slept, most called me the Nomad. ‘Stranger’ is not a poor guess.”
The Nomad of Constantinople! You’re kidding. My, my. I do believe I know your biggest fan. A faint laugh. The wisdom of lunatics, or luck of the draw? The world may never know.
“You have heard of me.”
They could not deny a certain satisfaction. There was no true humility among Kindred, not even the doomed Salubri—if they still existed. The Nomad’s reputation held its own power. Still…such a thing could be taken too far. A mononym was pretentious even by the standards of Kindred.
“For now,” they decided, “You may call me Phyre.”
Ah! Lovely ring to it, said their visitor agreeably. Do you always name yourself after the first legible word in your line of sight?
“...Not infrequently.” Phyre’s lips twitched despite herself. “Do not spread it around. I have a reputation.”
Decided against Doomflower, I take it?
“Be quiet.” This building must be long since condemned; Phyre scrambled through a hole in the ceiling rather than trust to stairs. “And what are you known as, then? I cannot simply call you ‘Malkavian’.”
Oh, most do! We’re not a Clan accustomed to an overabundance of courtesy. To my friends, however? The voice said this with a warmly audible smile. Gideon.
Gideon Hall.