Work Text:
Immortality has its faults.
One would think death is rarely on one’s mind when the gnarled, bony hands of age will never wrap its clawed fingers around your throat. And it isn’t, once a few centuries have passed and Ferid’s hair is still thick and silky where it swishes around his hips, his pale skin smooth and unwrinkled, blue veins visible where he traces along them with a sharp fingernail. Once he’s used to the idea of staying like that – pristine, unmarred by time, his charm never fading – death stays in the back of his mind for a little while, kept at bay by Saito’s grip on him, sometimes gentle and sometimes bruising, his murmured praise, his electric presence just out of reach to always have Ferid chasing after him, dreamlike. Even when Saito’s breath is hot on his neck, when Ferid’s heavy eyelashes flutter shut and his knees go weak as he succumbs to the haze of being drunken from – there is always a certain distance between them, a bit of fog, that leaves Ferid a little desperate. He hides the anxiety behind flirtation, but maybe Saito sees through it anyway, senses the fear behind I’m sleepy, carry me to bed, won’t you?
But Ferid never – he never thought his master would leave completely. One day Saito is there, with his odd smile and playful chuckle, and the next he’s vanished, the fog between them thickening tenfold and Ferid is lost in it, grasping at nothing. Saito's sonorous voice becomes a distant memory, the imprint of his scorching touches faded. And time goes on.
Something close to a millennium passes. Ferid is still stuck in the damn fog, his world grey, lifeless, his gaze empty as he moves without purpose through candlelit hallways of his quiet mansion. Once, he wonders if he even exists, because what living being just drifts like this?
Then… he can’t completely explain to himself why, but he’s transfixed by the veins on a little boy’s neck, hyperaware of a frantic pulse hammering inside the warm body, fluttering and alive. It’s a fleeting thought, nothing to act on: what if Ferid just slashes the fragile throat, abruptly ends a life instead of gently lulling it to sleep by drinking from the human?
He gives a saccharine smile, watches the boy’s glimmering green eyes fill with hope. It turns to confusion when Ferid slips off his glove, raises his arm and oh, how thrilling it is to watch that relieved, watery-eyed expression turn to terror. As his nails slice through flesh, blood splatters onto his white clothing. It’s warm, a thousand times better than his lips against skin, and he finds himself grinning as the body falls with a dull thud. The child gurgles, choking on blood, red mixing with tears on the marble floor. Ferid raises his hand to stare at it, shaking a bit. This, he decides as a droplet of blood runs down his cheek, this makes him feel alive, with something akin to giddiness nearly having him believing that his heart is pounding and blood is rushing through his veins again.
He keeps the killing of lambs for special treats, and spends most of his time out, hopping from place to place, leaving people whispering about that pale silver-haired stranger with a pretty face and feminine curves. He dances at banquets he isn’t invited to, but to his amusement no one questions his presence – after all, among rich colors and wine held in crystal glasses, fountains and fine suits and flowing dresses, he doesn’t look out of place at all. He returns all the shallow pleasantries with his own feigned grin. He always lies about his name and rank – sometimes he’s a local noble, sometimes he’s a distant relative of a host, once he’s even a prince from a foreign land. Always a flirt, he offers his hand for handsome men to kiss, then lures them away after a dance and some whispered words. Though, after Saito, he doesn’t have much interest in sex – so he takes a sip from those with blood that smells sweet. He used to give in to his own nature and drink until the arteries have nothing left to give, but once he pulls back and the lovely fear in the human’s eyes is so worth controlling himself. So he drinks a bit, gently wiping blood off a trembling cheek if he’s been messy, savors that horrified look if he can. Then he’s gone, leaving that city to cower in fear of the rumored vampire attack; it’s true, I was there when they found him, sucked dry with two holes in his neck. Be careful tonight, ladies and gents.
People slowly stop believing in vampires, though, so then his victims are left to be called madmen.
He lives through crumbling civilizations, and of course, humans killing each other in the masses for power, land, anything. Ferid brushes his hand over the scratchy bedsheets of the tavern he’s spending the night at – where is he now, Poland? One war two wars three wars five, no there’s more, wait, that’s not what he’d asked himself – he’s giggling into his hand, into fine satin, when did he put on gloves anyway? He knows where he bought them: Leipzig, Germany, a clothing shop for the filthy rich, January twenty seventh, just after noon. It’s a painful thing, remembering everything but feeling so distant, barely existing, is this what he’s seeing or is he – is that him laughing or is it someone else? Truly a painful thing to recall a thousand years in detail, but of course he mixes it up sometimes, on weird nights like these when he sees colors too bright and his breathing quickens and memories overlap and maybe he’ll do something useless like counting the floorboards. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. His grin twists into a scowl as he sits there staring at the dark floor covered in scratches and stains through glazed eyes. He’s missing a number, which is it? One two three four five six seven. Again, again. Still missing. Which damn number is it? Why is his heart stock still in his chest even if he draws useless breath into his lungs? What’s the point of it, anyway? He should just rip it out, slash his chest, snap some ribs and yank out the useless organ, stain his white gloves with red. Is that blood he smells? Oh dear, he forgot to drink again. Saito wouldn’t be happy. Or would he? The man was always a sadist. Why is Ferid’s vision blurry and stinging?
A servant is in his room, her bony hand reaching out in hesitation. “Is everything all right?” Hungarian, Ferid notes somewhere back in his hazy mind. So he’s wandered back to where he started. “We were passing by to bring supper – ”
Ferid responds by sinking his fangs into her neck. The fresh blood spilling into his mouth is metallic and warm and everything he needed – including shocking him back into rational thought, as the human beneath him thrashes and shrieks, venom not having set in yet.
Oh dear, he’s been rash – he’ll have to leave sooner than planned.
So he wanders the streets with a bit of blood splattered on his waistcoat, not enough to gain him more than some wary glances in the dim evening light. People hurry by with briefcases tucked under their arms and their hats drawn low over their faces. Ferid notes, through the light fog in his mind that rarely leaves, especially when he’s like this, that he stands out in his clothes befitting only nobles. His steps slow to a halt.
“Home,” he mutters, solemn for a moment. He’s standing still on an emptying square, boots on cold cobblestone and gaze up on the church before him whose glass windows are stained with the soft lilac colors of late sunset. Ferid hasn’t been here since he was human.
Maybe it’s because he hasn’t fully quenched his thirst, or because turning into a monster has caused layers of ice to grow over his heart, or because he’s still in the damn fog, but his lips turn up at the corners until he’s grinning. Then he giggles, absolutely giddy with the pointlessness of it all. Home? There is no home, he’s wandered the Earth looking for it and found nothing, nothing but marble walls, masquerades, emptiness, and wander he will until someone puts an end to his damned soul.
His laughter ceases. That someone won’t be easy to find. Frail as he looks, Ferid is still a seventh progenitor. Although, he already has an idea.
He smiles, soft and unforgiving.