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Crimson (2025)
Characters: Eilhart, Mihret
Ship: N/A
Setting: VtM AU
Rating: SFW
CW: mentions of blood, character death (technically), eil is suicidal^tm
note: this is like, kind of super outdated wrt his lore in the AU....
Nothing could have prepared him for it, really.
The only thing he remembers was a blur. Then the distinct feeling of pain blossoming on his body.
He feels adrenaline rushing into his veins, teeth grinding against teeth. Fists against bone, teeth against flesh.
Compassion overridden by the overwhelming need to live, to survive. To fight, fight, fight.
He doesn’t make it.
Not that he had the chance, anyway.
He barely feels the concrete when he falls, body limp and nerves dulled.
It’s cold.
...
He’s not sure when he wakes up.
His first breath comes out choked, ragged. Does little for his aching head as the ceiling lights spin around him.
His throat aches. God, he needs a drink.
“Oh, thank god.”
The sound cuts through the haze like a hot knife on butter. He tries to focus on the source of the sound. His head hurts.
A woman, sitting on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t recognize her, but he does recognize her voice.
The headache makes it harder to remember, but vague memories of a confession or two or three come to mind. Yearning masked behind a thin veil of penitence.
Was she a regular? …Ah, it’s not that important right now.
He tries to push himself off the bed.
“W-what are you —” He chokes out, unable to finish his sentence. His vision is still spinning.
He hunches over, groaning. His silver hair cascades down his peripheral vision.
The woman shakes her head at the sorry sight, her lips pulled into a somber smile.
“Don’t think about it. Aren’t you thirsty?”
His eyes follow her hands. She pours something from a flask into a nearby glass cup before offering it to him.
“...What is this?”
His gaze is locked onto the cup and its contents, and he swallows absentmindedly as he struggles waits for an answer.
“Come on.”
The woman pushes the cup closer to him. The scent overwhelms his senses.
He can’t control himself. Desperate hands grasp onto the delicate cup, wrenching it out of the woman’s hands. The thin glass threatens to shatter in his grip.
He doesn’t even stop to think before putting the rim of the cup against his lips, drinking greedily as he empties the thing in a few quick gulps.
Some of it spills past his lips, droplets staining the white sheets below. What a waste
It quenches the desperate thirst that he didn’t even know that he had. It’s not enough. He definitely could use a bit more, though. A lot, lot more
But it’s enough to make the world stop spinning around him. It feels like he can breathe again.
Golden eyes settle to the cup in his hands. It’s stained red, a thin film of viscous liquid still clinging onto the clear walls of the cup.
The lingering scent is intoxicating. His mouth waters, savoring the lingering metallic taste.
He feels sick.
A hand on his back breaks him out of his trance. He recognizes it as a gesture of comfort, or at least an attempt at one. It doesn’t do much. He still wants to crawl out of his skin regardless.
He opens his mouth to say something, but she starts, as if reading his mind.
“It wasn’t a fitting end for someone like you, you know.”
A hand traces up his shoulder, gently resting itself against the nape of his neck. Lithe fingers press against what was once broken flesh. He flinches away instinctively.
Ah.
He stays silent for a moment, gaze still lingering on the cup.
“...That was you?”
He mutters, wiping away a stray trickle of scarlet from the outer edge of the cup with a finger. Memories of blood-stained concrete and the night sky come to mind.
She gingerly plucks the cup away from his hands. She places it onto the bedside table with a gentle clink.
“I didn’t mean it, truly,”
It’s the same tone he’s heard countless times in that confessional.
She sighs. It’s exaggerated, unnatural. “But you were – how do you say – ‘in the wrong place at the wrong time’.”
Not once does her eyes meet his own.
She continues regardless.
“...And I wanted to give you another chance, that's all. Consider it my penance, if you will.”
“...That’s not for you to decide.” He says, before standing up. He wants to get away, as far as he can. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“You’ll learn to appreciate it in due time.”
She’s smiling again, ashy lips stretched across her sunken face. The artificial light casts an eerie shadow across her features. His eyes twitch.
“Maybe you’ll even thank me for it.”
It’s unbecoming of him, but he wants to wipe that smile off her face. Maybe he should.
“Like hell I would,” he spits out, unable to contain the anger in his voice.
“...What’s done is done, father.” She shrugs. The nonchalance is getting to him, fast. “You could just leave yourself at the mercy of the coming dawn, if you want.”
He does consider it, briefly. But something inside him lurches at the thought. Violently.
“Just…leave.” He strains out, calming himself down with each artificial breath. He can’t take any more of this. “Please.”
The woman huffs. “If you wish.”
He watches her pick up her belongings – a stained jacket and the flask from earlier. His gaze settles on the flask again, and part of him wishes she’d leave it behind.
She’s halfway through the door before she turns around to look at him again. He finally locks eyes with her.
She’s waiting for something. But he doesn’t say anything. Nor does she.
The room is now empty. As it should have been.
Amidst the silence, dread settles in his stomach again.
He lets himself sink into the floor, hands clawing at his face.
He tries to think.
But,
Ah.
He’s still hungry.
Click to read the bonus part 2; was supposed to be part of the main piece above but I wasn't able to string it together coherently. So it's kind of a "chapter 2" thing.
note: Chronologically happens a few hours after the first part. also imo i don't like it as much as the first but...meh.
The first few hours were painful.
First, he locked his bedroom door, hoping that the flimsy lock would bar anyone from coming in.
Then, he tried to sleep.
But he wasn’t tired, not one bit. Exhausted, maybe. Hungry, definitely.
He winds up spending a good amount of time tossing and turning in his old bed. Body buried underneath every blanket that he could find, hoping that the darkness would take him eventually.
It doesn’t work.
The night was still young, after all.
...
The next few hours had him on his knees, contemplating his existence.
What had he done to deserve this? Could he even continue to live like this?
Thoughts raced inside his head as the hunger gnawed at the corner of his mind, ears pricking up at the occasional sound of footsteps outside his bedroom door.
He’s still hungry.
He can’t.
...
The last few hours were a bit more bearable.
The eventual silence had allowed him to clear his head and meditate.
He forced himself to do penance, devoting the last few hours of the night mouthing familiar prayers and mysteries over and over and over.
Admittedly, it felt wrong to pray when he was planning to kill himself later, but even that was a lesser evil than the curse itself.
Whatever punishment he’ll get in the afterlife, he’ll simply deal with it. I’m sure He’ll understand.
That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
…
It doesn’t take much longer for the sky to grow bright. The dark blue of the night shifted into a familiar purple, then pink, then orange.
The boards covering his windows weren’t foolproof, and light began to bleed into the room slowly.
To his dismay, he felt fear.
He could feel bile (blood?) rise up his throat, threatening to unload the little liquid he had drank from earlier.
He felt every nerve in his undead body flaring to life, telling him to get out get out GET OUT GET OUT
He grit his teeth desperately (he’s sure he broke a few teeth that morning) as he used every ounce of his remaining willpower to stay right where he was, as the light crept through the room with each passing tick of the clock.
It was agonizing.
But he can’t give up. Not now.
Just a few more minutes, and he could finally free himself from this wretched curse.
…
He was a weak man.
In one fell swoop, he felt every cognitive function in his brain shut down as he launched himself across the room, away from the growing stream of light.
He found himself clawing his way underneath blankets, sheets, furniture, all in a desperate attempt to escape the sun.
But it wasn’t enough.
It was as if each particle of light had threatened to penetrate the thick fibers of whatever covering he had on him. The only thing he could really do was flee, again.
He soon found himself in his dingy bathroom, desperately stuffing anything that he can against the cracks on the door, all in a pathetic attempt to keep the light out.
It was wet, cramped, but it was enough to shield him enough from the scorching light.
Darkness envelops him once more.
It takes him a moment to (barely) calm down, aching head resting against the damp floor as he mouths expletives to himself.
Then everything goes black.
He dreams of nothing.