Swan Song [Lyonel]

[Blaize]

Given the type of fracture and location, I will not dance again, Blaize wanted to say. He could have sworn, in his dazed state of mind, that the words had passed his lips, that he had finished the sentence that this enigmatic stranger had started. Nothing passed Blaize’s lips but the chattering of teeth, the barely contained grunt of a man who had things to say but not the wits to say them. Questions were asked, and Blaize’s eyes rolled back in his skull, his eyelids drooping as his spirit flagged. This was a stepping stone. This very ballet, this very swan that he play acted as, was his ticket out of the city. His talent would be recognised and he would be whisked away by the powers that be; he would join the American Ballet Company, and he would soar.

But he was not soaring. He was drowning in agony in the back seat of a stranger’s car.

This time, Blaize was prepared when he was lifted. His broken leg drooped, useless, the bottom half swinging and causing the stars to once more dance at the dark edges of Blaize’s vision. His fingers curled into whatever he could grip, the scream contained, this time, in a constricted throat. Laid out on the couch, Blaize gasped lungfuls of air, doing his best to clear his vision and stave away the urge to pass out. Again. When he took the glass of amber liquid from the stranger, his hand shook. The contents might have spilled all over the nice floor if Blaize hadn’t been so hasty in downing the alcohol in one large, thirsty gulp. It burned all the way down his throat, though it barely did a thing to quell the pain.

”I need a hospital,” he gasped.

”I can’t… can’t discuss anything,” he said, spit flying unbidden from his lips. The desperate plea for a vampire earlier had been forgotten – Blaize couldn’t begin to fathom that he might have fallen into the lap of a miracle worker. He felt like he was going to pass out, again, and this guy wanted to have a conversation? What was this fuckery?

”Why did you bring me here?!” he finally asked, eyes afire as he forced himself to focus on the stranger, brows furrowed as a drop of sweat rolled over his temple.

[Lyonel]

“Correction.” Only a brief pause was given with his reminder. “You need a miracle.”

Lyonel’s words were not carrying the tone of empathy or the concern that could be expected from someone looking as if they were about to snap under the visible pressure of an injury that clearly was taking its toll on the body that sustained it. His eyes pierced the space between them as his face hardened where it has been soft with concern before. He swept the glass from his unsteady hand.

“And you are going to need another drink.”

Lyonel stood in the middle of the room finding this was going to be far easier than he first thought. He gave the dancer time to take in another round of the premium whisky, Pain was the main motivator he had working for him along with the best barrel cradled liquor the region had to offer. The truth he was about to deliver on top of it was likely going to be a harsh serving. Despite everything he believed the sweating and shivering swan would have to see it for what it was. Grim at best as far as his future was concerned without the killers intervention.

“My name is Lyonel. Not that it should be relevant at this point. How long you can hold up is paramount. Why I brought you here is obvious.” His eyes went to the source of coppery sweetness that was flooding the air with temptation.

The cufflinks that were stuffed into his pockets came out and were dropped into a small decorator plate on the table behind the sofa that his wife had likely pulled from one of her properties and dropped in the mix of things. He stared briefly and realized that his Elvis cigar box was what used to be there. His eyes floated upward before he took up the cause at hand and banished everything else from his mind. There was a swan in his midst and he was determined to harness the beauty of the moment then do the right thing and watch him soar.

“That will be up to you, of course.” He pinched the fabric of the formal slacks and gave each a tug as his tall frame conformed fluidly to the seat where he could make his presence perfectly clear the disoriented eyes. “What is your name?”

He wished had had some of his wife’s abilities now that he thought about it. Since he did not the swan’s thoughts were safe and would not be visited. It would be the dancer’s choosing for him to know. A hesitation in offering a third glass of whisky came about. Let the pain work. Lyonel was known to be incredibly patient. Most would believe a could not be by nature but any natural predator in the wild kingdom could demonstrate it was first and foremost at getting hold of what was wanted. And the swan most certainly was. Why else would he be downing drinks from a West stocked bar on a farm safely secluded? The night was young and sooner or later he was figuring his favorite dancer was going to forever be.

[Blaize]

Lyonel, he said – but then stated that it wasn’t relevant. And then he went on ahead and asked Blaize his name. Blaize, at least, thought that he should know whose house he’d been brought to. It was his life, his broken leg, and this guy was a stranger. It was relevant, to know where he was. Who factored into that equation.

Blaize’s name, however, was not relevant, not in his opinion. Getting help was relevant. Getting a miracle was relevant. And all this small talk, this idle chit-chat was frankly chewing at Blaize’s last nerve. Why he was here was apparently obvious. Collapsing back on the couch after the second gulp of whiskey, he hissed and shook his head, eyes squeezed shut.

”You… you are the miracle?” he asked, as if he was a third grade student wondering if he had the right answer. He coughed and tried to right himself but failed, again shaking his head. Was his name pertinent to the furthering of this miracle? Would it not be given if they were not properly introduced?

”Blaize Monroe,” he spat, turning to face his kidnapper, to narrow his eyes in the man’s direction. He was so well dressed, so well put together. This all just seemed so damned surreal. His name would have been on the ballet’s programs, but not everyone bought them, did they? Not everyone cared to name the art on the stage. They were just there to watch, to escape for a few hours before returning to the drudgery of their lives.

Back on the stage, he remembered. He remembered asking for a vampire. For a miracle. Could it really have been this easy? Were they so numerous that this one just happened to be nearby? It was all too good to be true. Maybe he was dreaming.

”Please. Please, just fix it. I don’t care what it takes,” he said, the words pained and desperate. He didn’t care. In that moment, he could only think of what he wanted. He could only think of his future – could only now see it going up in flames. He didn’t care what the consequences were – he would do anything to make sure he could and would dance again.

[Lyonel]

This was far easier than Lyonel thought it would be. Not that Blaize had anything really to say about it. The situation was in dire need of intervention or an othopedist and a couple hours of O.R. time. It was late and the wound was over an hour old. That meant the risk for infection was rising which could make the rest of him that more susceptible to complications with the surgical intervention. Lyonel leaned over and took the glass and set it back on the bar.

As he made his way back to the ballet star known as Blaize Monroe he decided man to vampire that he would give him the first lesson in the world he was about to enter. Yes, he would be joining the ranks of the fanged and fabulous. He would dance again, captivate audiences and he would fly like the swan he was meant to be. If things turned even more in his favor he would quite possibly heal the very wound that earned him the gift. And it was a gift. One that could not be exchanged or returned. That was the catch he was going to make perfectly clear before he took on the task of making it happen.

Now that he knew the man's identity he found himself focusing more intently on the bloody limbed body. The very same one that was gracing his white sofa with his sweating fractured flesh and bodily fluids. His long hands slid into his front pockets and he had a few last questions that would only delay them momentarily. Questions he found important to give consideration to once his wife’s childe, Kaspar, unexpected entered the West fold not that long ago.

“Blaize Monroe…”He said his name as he looked at him pointedly.

The swan was about to feel inspired far more than he ever had in his life. Lyonel could elevate his mood far more than any piece of music and could have him believing anything was possible just by a simple effort on his part to make it possible. He smiled while he returned to his chair facing where the swan was sprawled out. Inspiring the human was as instantaneous as the blink of his own eyes.

“Do you feel strong enough to own what you just said?” He looked serious as he asked the million dollar question. “You have any rugrats you are responsible for? A main amore that may need a call? After you answer those questions feel free to answer these as well.” He pressed his open palms together and splayed his long fingers joining each at the firngertips.”Can you accept my help? It will change you forever. You will soar to new heights, be stronger than you currently ever have the hope of being and you will be forever young. In turn you will have to favor the nightlife, accept a slight limitation in your diet needs and be creative enough to keep yourself busy for the next several hundred years if not longer.” Celadon eyes were fixed on him like superglue waiting for an answer. “If not I have a plan B I am more than ready to activate. It is much like plan A, which you just heard about, only not half as gentle but equally effective in the delivery.”

[Blaize]

Later, Blaize would understand the pertinence of the questions. He would still have answered the same, but if he were sitting here calmly and under no influence, he’d have been able to respect them more than he could while overcome with agony. Tears had sprung to the dancer’s eyes, unbidden. There were no sobs, just a silent trace of saltwater racing down the crease between nose and cheek, trembling over the cliff of Blaize’s lip.

”Ballet is my child. Ballet is my wife. Ballet is my family,” he spat. It could have been misinterpreted, of course. The other dancers meant nothing to Blaize, most of the time. They could be good company when they wanted to be, but camaraderie was missing. He wanted to leave them all behind. He believed himself better than they were.

A peculiar strength thrummed through his uninjured limbs; a rare and foreign enthusiasm shot to his heart like fuel injected into an engine. He took a deep breath and stilled himself, eyes closed for a couple of seconds while he gathered this new strength and held it close. He didn’t feel quite as useless as he had. Sharp eyes opened again; they were hooded as they found the face of his kidnapper. There was no hesitation, no shock, no horror. Even desperation had taken a back seat.

”Please. Help me,” he said. He didn’t ask any questions. The diet he had himself on at the moment was hardly satisfying and Blaize would have no trouble giving it up. Performances were at night – training and classes were during the day, but he could figure something out. There were plenty of studios he could go to at night time to practice, to catch up on his training. The thought of living a few more centuries may have caused his overworked heard to do a lurching flip – but it wasn’t a bad thing. What young, ambitious person would pass up the chance of immortality? Fear of early death and grave of failures and good intentions was paramount.

He shook his head, that fierce, determined stare loosening, lightening, trembling.

”This won’t heal properly. If I can’t dance, I’d prefer to die,” he said. Really, he just wanted to get this show on the road.

[Lyonel]

The profession of his passions being entwined in his first love was believable. Why else would he be so desperate to be healed and free of the burden of the debilitating wound? The pain was significant but the loss of the ability to continue what he felt born to do was more so. Taking a last moment to decide if the room was the most fitting place to do it he concluded quickly that it was. It was better than in an alley. With that he brought about the choice of rising and rolling his shoulders back. Even and strong each remained he as stepped in closer and leaned over the man that shivered beneath his looming body.

Words could have been exchanged. Something poetic or profound perhaps. A last verbal token to hold on to as the dancer’s body would quickly and not so pleasantly succumb to the inevitable process of death. The salty heat from the swan’s body infused the air between them and it was undeniable. So much promise came from the heart the pounded in desperation. It is never becoming. Not to the mortal eyes. For the set of celadon orbs that pinpointed the spot where the call of a whooshing current of blood flowed in the uncompromised venous wall it was beautiful. The swan would become free once again but with the gift would always be connected to him.

The length of his cool fingers moved to slip between the sofa and the damp heat of human skin. A subtle play of each digit allowed the air to cool the sweat that stuck to the surface of each. Each returned tight to curl at the nape and hold the neck in place. His free hand went to the right shoulder. A smoothing of his hand down the bare flesh felt the pulsing that soon would be flowing between his lips. He leaned in taking in the crystal blue pools of need as his mouth found the salty kiss of his neck. A roll of his cool tongue caressed the soft surface. It was as nice as it was going to get.

With no warning the soon to be swan killer used his strength to bring Blaize tighter to his own body. A progressive press of a cold wall of muscle covering that of lithe dancer had them joined chest to chest. No space was to be left between them. Not even enough to take a much needed and possibly last breath. The suction of lips pulled in the reward of flesh beyond the line of lethal points. A last minute savor of the delicate mouthful was inspiring. Lyonel released a low sound across the portion he chose and in turn felt it vibrate at his own lips. Now the process would continue until it's life ending completion.

The burn of his gums stretching was always a pleasure and he would enjoy it fully. The firm tips of his fingers pushed deeper into the muscle beneath them while his fangs thrust down penetrating the layers of skin and strips of muscle that were designed to protect what he was going for. The deep pop of the thick wall submitting under the pressure of his bite set off the rush of heat. A source that permeated its way to every part of him that would mark the human as his own. As much as any could be to the vampire drawing from it with the purpose of creation. No drop would be left. All of it would be replaced with his own.

[Blaize]

The Swan had no idea what to expect.

The one instance he’d experienced fangs slipping into his flesh, it had been that one drunken night and had resulted in a scar. That scar was a reminder, whenever he had tried to tell himself he’d imagined it. That woman had told him enough to convince him, but she hadn’t told him everything. She couldn’t have had the time. There definitely was no step by step guide on what it took to become a vampire. And nor did Lyonel seem like he wanted to share the process. Blaize would just have to stumble along and hope that he was doing the right thing – if he was expected to do anything at all. And hope to any God that was listening that he could trust this man.

Given the piece of art that Blaize was currently involved in, the press of a male body so close to his was not foreign. The dance required the embrace of another man; it required that he embrace in return. It required passion in lust to fuel each flying leap, each lift. With this complete stranger in an unfamiliar setting, however, he couldn’t help but be a little perturbed. Any confusion was easily swept aside by the fresh wave of agony. The sharp shift of his body as it was lifted and embraced caused his leg to twitch. By now, Blaize had become accustomed to the slow waves, some lapping almost peacefully while others crashed with a roar. A cry crawled from his accosted throat, abruptly hushed when the canines sank true. The rest of the cry was released in a ragged burst, and Blaize could do nothing but let his head fall onto Lyonel’s shoulder, hands clawing at whatever purchase they could find.

He did not know what his fingers curled around, whether it be arm or leg or couch. He could see nothing but the stars dancing between eyes that were tightly screwed shut, lips pulled back as he exerted as much control over his own body as he was able, to keep it from fleeing on instinct.

And then it kicked it. Whatever numbing agent all vampires seemed to carry around had entered Blaize’s blood stream. The pain and shock abated, his head spun. His tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth and his body relaxed, breathing evening out to something a little less than panicked. In his head he could hear music. In his head, he was flying.

There he remained, completely and seemingly at ease, trying hard not to focus on the growing discomfort. He tried not to think about the teeth in his neck, nor the fact that this stranger was drinking his blood. How much was he going to take? It was only when Blaize realised that he had taken too much that his fingers again started to twitch. It was only when he realised he was far too weak, now, to fight that he began to fight. He was going to die. He was going to die in this cabin with this stranger because he’d been so desperate for a miracle cure. He didn’t realise until too late that he no longer had the strength to even hold himself up.

A low moan strangled in his throat, numbness cooling his extremities. If words could be formed by that animal sound, they would have said please let me live.

[Lyonel]

A surge of possessiveness bloomed with the flow of heat that found the surface of his tongue. It was something he was never known to be. Not till that moment. Lyonel had never truly tapped on what it was that could be the draw of creating more of what he was. He didn’t connect to the desire. If asked he would had admitted he had never truly been tempted. But at that moment with Blaize in his lethal grip everything in his world expanded and shifted. All of it was being marked by the presence of the one in his mouth and at the tip of his tongue. It swirled in thick spirals around the holes that were left as his fangs retracted. A rush of a connection instantly overwhelmed him.

The tight hold that had them joined chest to chest was interrupted with the release of Lyon’s hands. Quickly his wrist came to his bloody lips and his jaws opened so that his fangs could tear through what had become nearly impossible to compromise. Skin like leather, worn and conditioned over time made the slicing of the layers more difficult than he expected. He reached over where Blaize lay and pulled his custom blade from the drawer of the table that backed the sofa. He had only to press down with his strength that was charged with a purpose it had not known before. The pale skin beneath was divided so that the crevice soon was overflowing with cool blood. Blood that would not encourage the struggling human beneath. The swan was dying and all but flew for the last time right into death’s door. How could the choice be made when he was fading faster than the killer even anticipated?

Lyonel refused the possibility that Blaize could slip away. The reward of the chosen one was on his cold lips. The taste that permeated the West killer via veins and bone deep would not shake it’s hold. It would be. He would have him. One way or another it would happen. His left hand slipped under his neck. Silk strands of nearly white hair skated over his flesh. A protective wrap pulled the dancer into him closer than before. All the determination he was known to possess went into the tone of his voice. Controlled and confident he gave the guidance for the next step.

“Swallow.”

Lyon left no room for the expectation to be lost in the fog of a dying man’s brain. His wrist centered it's self-inflicted wound to the heat of the gaping mouth. If there was a final breath to be drawn it was denied as he pressed down firm and flexed his hand attached to it. He purposefully wedged as much of his flesh between Blaize's lips to keep his jaws wide. Squeezing hard, opening and closing his hand he prompted more fluid through the generous divide of his veins to keep it flowing instead of healing up.

“Now.” He growled loudly as he stared into the cooling pools of blue on a face that was far too beautiful and young to let go without taking the gift that was being offered. “Swallow!”

[Blaize]

The command, at first, was lost. The swan could not understand what Lyonel was asking him to do, as if the word was made of letters that were nonsense. The process of deciphering that one single word was taxing, and in the end Blaize really didn’t need to be told a thing. The sharp command was undeciphered even the second time around, but thick drops of blood found their way to Blaize’s tongue and ignited the taste receptors.

Blood. It tasted of copper and yet there was something else, something indefinable. It was a taste that could not be compared to anything Blaize had ever tasted before. It was the taste of magic, dark and eternal, a living thing that sought his body as a vessel, and his body craved the host. The first gulp was like heaven, blues rolling back into Blaize’s head as a sharp breath was inhaled through flaring nostrils. Three gulps then four, five and he had a little of his strength back. Enough to grasp at the arm that provided this fountain of magical youth, to scoot backwards oblivious of any blinding pain from his broken limb, groaning and grunting only a little, as if the agony were a mere annoyance, a tickling fly to flick from gaping flesh.

Blaize’s lips parted to allow more of the thick cruor to pump over his tongue, his own teeth dragging at Lyonel’s broken skin in order to widen the wound and thicken the flow. He was not patient with this life-giving meal, but instead sucked and pulled, greedily taking all that he could get. It felt like he’d lived his whole life thirsty, a man in the middle of a desert with no water, but now he was suddenly offered an oasis, the water clear and fresh and bountiful. A never-ending supply. As it slid down his throat and filled his gut it refreshed him, satisfying a thirst he never knew he had. That was how dehydration worked – water wasn’t craved until it had touched the tongue.

A deep moan reverberated in Blaize’s chest; something had begun to twist in his abdomen, a pain not unlike the one that accompanied the consumption of rancid milk. And yet it did nothing to stem his thirst. If anything he only held on tighter, fingers digging into flesh as his tongue massaged at the open wound of Lyonel’s wrist, encouraging more blood. More, because he felt like he could never have enough.

[Lyonel]

Lyonel relaxed as he was drawn into the exchange. Heat at his skin made it so easy to surrender the blood he valued as much as the bond to the one who gifted it to him. If only it would accepted. The swan had to drink on his own and make his choice. His arm slipped to ease the shift of his grip placing it firmly at the back of the man’s damp neck. The drying sweat salt coated the inside of hand and he wanted to absorb that too. Consuming the dancer’s blood was only the beginning of their journey together.

Celadon orbs transfixed on the milky face beneath. A hiss of anticipation seeped from his lips. Thick fingers massaged the neck in their hold with the hope to coax a first response from the lifeless petal pink mouth. One that was slowly but progressively losing it’s color as he watched and waited. The possibility he could have been wrong was trying to slither it’s questionable presence within the killer. Sharply it was denied. No doubt would be entertained. Not then, not while he held the dying swan in his arms.

Accept. Come back to me.

As Lyon’s thoughts centered him to keep his position in check the sensation of a first pull from his wrist confirmed what he wanted most. The swan was attempting to take his first flight into the darkness he was being offered. His hand continued to tighten forming the iron fist between Blaize’s jaws. A burn of teeth turning sharp and working with a newfound purpose against his flesh sent a fire through his cold body and charged him. His own blood caked lips pulsed beneath the caress of his cool tongue. The inner desire was on the rise to tap into that first rush that the swan killer could never forget. The shock of power hitting at the weakest point of imminent death and lighting up everything in it’s path. The euphoria of immortal creation at work was orgasmic. It was impossible to duplicate or find anywhere else but in the act itself. He couldn’t pull his focus from Blaize as the dancer’s ice blue orbs rolled back. Yes, there it was and now he was the one delivering it.

A firm claw of the swans fingertips took purchase of the cool flesh that was offered. Predictably the temptation of the devil himself took hold with the warm delving of the swan's tongue in his lacerated flesh. Lyonel's jaw tightened in response allowing Blaize the time to consume what his body needed. Weakness slowly laced his position over him and his body relaxed with the relief it gradually brought. The killer could be deprived of the last drop and still perform if needed. It was the result of years of discipline, training and adherence to the regimen that was expected of him. Wolf's legacy was growing beneath Lyonel's grip.