Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Vagaries	By : viciousv Category: S through Z > True Blood Views: 2100 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own True Blood or any of its characters, and I profit in no way from this work. Blood play, violence

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
He struggled out of the ground, filthy with earth and tangled up in a faded leather surcoat. He ripped it away from himself, his blue eyes wide with fear and wonder. He shook the dirt out of his black curls, and looked around the forest for any sign of life, but there was no one. He remembered...hands. Black hands- no, gloved hands. Teeth, he’d never seen the like. A beast, but no, a beast that stood upright. Then, his neck- Christ, it was going to kill him. He clapped a hand to the wound, but there was nothing there. It was still sticky, but there was no wound.
A sharp searing in his guts, a knife edge of hunger. Where had the fiend gone? Why was he weeping, crying like a child for its mothers? He searched and searched, maddened by the animal noises- the step of a deer, the shuffling of a rabbit. But no human sound. No sign of the one who had brought him here.
Blood. He remembered drinking it. He remembered clawing at the arm, crying when it was withdrawn. The hooded figure said something in a language he could not speak, and forced him back. Then darkness dropping over him like a great black curtain.
Now he was hungry. So hungry that pain suffused his very skin. The rustle of leaves, the distant sound of...was that laughter? The clink of tankards? How was it possible? He had to be miles away. But before he could stop himself, he was drawn towards the sound, so quickly he could not perceive his own footfalls. In an instant, he was before the palisade gate, which was manned by a familiar figure. Patrick Mosley, or as they all called him “Broad Pat”, famous for his skill as a wrestler. He was a powerful young man, the blacksmith’s boy. His friend.
“Sir Frankeleyn!” he called, raising his torch. He came down the incline, his face all full of worry. “Sir Frankeleyn, we thought to see you this morning, we feared you had fallen under attack.”
I did, Frankeleyn thought to himself. My men, slaughtered. Gloved hands breaking my gorget off like it was paper.
“God above, you’re wounded,” Pat said once he was close. He stuck the stick end of the torch into the ground and went to attend his master. Frankeleyn wondered what he must look like. Bloody face, blood caking his throat. Covered in dirt from head to foot. But then, a most delectable scent climbed up through his nostrils, and floated into his head. All consuming.
Pat’s throat, it was pulsing with blood. He could see it, could see the veins throbbing, could smell the meaty, salty fluid that rushed just under the skin. Then the teeth, his teeth, pressing into his lip. They’d slipped down from some recess in his skull, and the razor points cut into the inside of his mouth.
Pat saw them too. His eyes widened. “Christ almighty!”
It was too late. Frankeleyn had him by the throat, shaking him like a rat dog. He breathed in the blood like a man dying of thirst, while the limbs of his friend and servant stiffened and twitched. He drank and drank until there was nothing left. The thing that had been Pat crumpled, mighty no longer.
Frankeleyn staggered, a shuddering palpitating sensation of pleasure throbbing through his veins. He wanted more. He could smell it, like waves of steam wafting over the palisade wall. He swarmed up the gate before he could stop himself, and followed the sounds of laughter, the scent of ale and grouse.
The massacre took no time at all. Rivers of blood, more than he could drink, streamed under the ale house door. They all lay dead or dying, ripped open by his fangs, or his hands. Mouse, Kay and Sir Peter. The Hales. His friends. His brothers. They hadn’t fought, couldn’t fight, could not countenance death in the form of their commander, their beloved son of Mott. Frankeleyn wept as he did it, weeping for the things he did, and still he could not stop. Still, there was that smell, that maddening smell of living blood.
His own door was barred. The screams had roused the village, but he had killed all of the fighting men. They wouldn’t have made any difference. He kicked in the door, looking for her, searching for her to please, please shake him awake, end this nightmare.
She was in the dining hall, shielding the boys. Thomas and James, were twins. Both of them fair like their mother. At the sight of their father, they cried. Mary pushed them, told them to flee. They went as fast as their little legs could go. His eyes followed them, attuned to the sound of their tiny, fluttering hearts. But it was Mary, his Mary, her long golden hair, her shining white face, that drew him now.
“Help me,” he whispered, moving towards her. “Mary.”
She dropped to her knees, her hands clutched around her rosary. As she prayed (for his soul or hers?) her hands clenched so tightly around the beads that blood flowed from her palm. He was there before he could stop himself, and he took up her hand, and kissed the blood. She tried to wrench it away, but his grip was unmovable.
“Who are you, demon?” she whispered. “What have you done with my husband?”
“Mary-”
“No. You speak with his voice, but you are not he.”
“I am Frankeleyn. Some curse is laid upon me.”
She spat in his face. “Liar.”
“Please help me,” he begged. “Please.”
She pressed the rosary against his face. The silver burned like acid, and he screamed. He slapped it out of her hand, jerked back her beautiful blonde head and sank his teeth into her throat. Blood blossomed into his mouth, his wife’s blood, sweet with her anguish, her beating heart’s fear, her heart’s love, her heart’s breaking. He tried to stop, tried, but his body would not obey.
Oh, my love.
Her body was so small. He had been able to circle her waist with one arm. She had born him twins with that tiny frame, in defiance of his fears. Now she looked at him with her neck bent back and eyes rolled. He dropped her, stepped away, his humanity swamped, drowning in blood. A tiny part of him screamed no, no, no, but it was so tiny. It was the voice of a drowning man in the distance. The beast heard the tender weeping voices from the cellar. The beast said yes, oh yes.
Tara shot out of bed, sitting straight up, clutching at her chest. It felt like a hand squeezing her heart. The vision lingered, and she cried out, blood tears blurring her eyes. It was still day- she could feel the leaden pull of sleep- but the terror was so palpable she wondered if she would ever sleep again. The young woman. The boys. Pale blue eyed boys. Moment by moment, she felt the pressure on her heart release. She looked over at Franklin, who was laid out like a corpse, but twitching and whimpering in a very un-corpselike way. The nightmare still had him.
She reached over and seized his shoulders, shaking roughly enough to give a human whiplash. His eyes snapped open. He was on her in an instant, his fangs descended, his hand closing around her throat. His lip curled, and he hissed.
Your heart is beating so fast. I want to feel it stop.
But her heart did not beat.
“Franklin,” she choked out. His grip was iron, and she couldn’t break it. His eyes were blind to her. The dream was inside him still. She felt the anguish inside him, and pushed back against it. They shared blood, and it was more powerful than even his deepest nightmare. She searched for what what was Tara, sunlit days on the Stackhouse lawn, the dark nights driving her mother home from the hospital, the empty beds, daddy’s gun, the first time she smoked a joint with Lafayette. Then the memory, her knuckles splitting on a tobacco stained jaw, the vampire holding him for her like a boxing coach steadying a heavy bag.
Yes, hit him. Hit him back. Hurt him. Make him pay.
His eyes cleared. He released her throat, and breathed as though winded. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He dissolved, blood tears coming fast now. He tried to move back, but she caught him, wrapping her arms around him. He wept steadily into her breasts for ten minutes, while she stroked his hair. In that time, she started to feel crunchy, like someone with a mild hangover. Tiny drips of blood came from her ears and nose, and she looked down and saw he was in the same state.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. He looked up at her, his face awash in blood.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, not believing she was saying it, but believing what she was saying all the same.
“It was,” he said, his blood rimmed eyes staring blankly. “It was my fault.”
She gave him a little shake. “No. What you did to me, stalking me, putting your mind-rape on me, that was your fault. You ain’t sorry about that, are you?”
He said nothing, only looked through her.
She hooked her finger under his chin and forced him to look her in the eye. “If you had let me crawl out the ground and go tearing off to Bon Temps, if you had let me do that, would that be my fault?”
Slowly, he shook his head.
She laid her hand over his. “My life was fucked up before you showed up, but I ain’t never been as unlucky as that. Because you may be terrible, you may be a sadistic, evil son of a bitch, but you didn’t do that to me. You didn’t leave me like that.”
“No,” he said, and suddenly his arms were tight around her. “Never. I won’t. Not like that.”
She stroked his hair, and let her mouth rest on his forehead. “I know.”
“Even if we’re apart for a hundred years, two hundred years, you’ll always be able to find me again.”
His words whispered through her skin, under her ribs. They were comforting, and they were terrifying because they were comforting.
God help me, he’s grown on me.
She fell back to sleep with him cuddled around her, head resting on her chest. They did not dream.
- 6
- 7
- 8
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Vagaries