Death Itself Was Undone [VDM]

[Judah Marck]

They were all reacting around him, speaking in a tongue that felt as familiar as English, a language that was as easy to him as breathing and yet he did not acknowledge them. His eyes were fixated on their Patriarch, yes, it really was him. This weak husk of a man was their forefather, the one from whom they all stemmed. He look emaciated, too many years without eating... No, not eating was it? Feeding. The rumours were true, this man that had fallen down beside him confused and alarmed was a vampire. They had given their blood to bring him back, Gregor had given his life. "Oh god, what have I done?" The note of horror was lost beneath the piteous sadness that weighed him down. His G-baby, his younger cousin was gone. He had made the choice, of that there was no doubt, he had decided it was his duty and he stepped into the darkness but why? Why him? Why did he think he was the one that did not deserve to carry on?

He couldn't begin to assume he might know what was going through Gregor's mind, why he did what he did. Jude's gaze shifted to Louvel, but found only pain in looking at him. Mirella seemed afraid, and yet, braver and more committed than he imagined she would be after what she had witnessed. A strong grip took his shoulder, not painful, but reassuring in it's bony steadiness. "Alaric... Vater." He croaked out, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice. Leonie's hand touched his shoulder, her words washing over him as he finally looked up into the face of his Lioness, another source of strength and resolution.

Yes, it had happened and now they had the consequences to deal with, a man to care for. Jude reached up gingerly to took her wrist, pushing it back. She could offer again if she wished, if she insisted then he would bow to her wishes but he felt guilt over allowing another family member to take the fall for something he had suggested. Judah placed his hand on Alaric shoulder in a similar fashion to the way he held him, a reassuring pressure as he spoke. "Ich bin Judah von der Marck, und wir sind deine kinder. Wir sind die von der Marck... Hallo, Alaric." His trademark grin never fully formed, but a pale ghost of it tugged at his lips adding a warmth to his expression that had been noticeably void until then. His palm opened, that which had been cut and was still bleeding, raising it extended towards the Patriarch as they sat together. Jude's frame remained almost protectively curled against Gregor's body, even as he offered his life source to revive Alaric. He could only do what he hoped Gregor would want, and that was ensuring the man survived his return and the sacrifice worth it.

"Wir sind deine kinder. Bitte." He repeated more firmly, his message clear. We are your children, we are devoted and we need you.

"Vater" - Father
"Ich bin Judah von der Marck, und wir sind deine kinder. Wir sind die von der Marck... Hallo, Alaric." - I am Judah von der Marck, and we are your children... Hello, Alaric.
"Wir sind deine kinder. Bitte." - We are your children. Please.

[Alaric von der Marck]

Home.

The word was echoed by the three of them. First, by the tall blonde, and second by the older female. All three who uttered a word repeated the same sentiment; that he was home, that they were his blood. A ritual had been performed, and the result had brought him home. The notion was shocking, and for a few long moments Alaric could only stare at them, his gaze peering through to fourth, who’d not yet said a word. Where his body was emaciated, his eyes were bright. They were the eyes of a living being, of a being with a soul. Centuries of history were written into those eyes, older than the body they were attached to.

The stare was inquisitive, the eyes dancing over the features of each young creature surrounding him. There similarities to each other, and what’s more, similarities to the memories that now crowded Alaric’s mind. For centuries he’d watched his brood; he’d watched his children’s children grow up and have children, and in turn had watched those children grow, and spawn, and so on through the years. New features were introduced to the bloodline, but some remained the same. Many children, several generations down the track, could be the spitting image of their great, great, great grandparent. It was something that had fascinated Alaric, and even now he could see it. The resemblances. They weren’t lying. He didn’t have to question it, he could see the truth written in their DNA.

The scent of which suddenly assaulted Alaric’s senses. It was upon being offered a wrist that he understood his own thirst. He had been dead for years, decades, how long had it been? Of course he was thirsty. But it was so prominent, his teeth now so sharp, because he could smell it. It was all around him. It saturated his senses and for a split second, the predator gleamed in his old eyes. The urge to leap and tear, to slice through skin to get to the blood beneath.

But he’d also had decades, centuries to learn control. Regardless of how desperate his body was for the nourishment, he could control himself. He’d left home when first turned because he couldn’t – he’d been a monster, he’d slaughtered so many. He’d almost forgotten about his family; he was not there for them when his beloved Anja died. The grief, the pure, unadulterated misery had chained him. His willpower, over the years, had grown. He was a vampire, but he refused to be a monster. There would be processes. His life would become a ritual. He would not kill without mercy, and he would not feed unnecessarily.

And he could smell the von der Marck in the blood. He could smell his own blood. This was his family. He would not slaughter his family, even if the hunger was tearing him up inside.

The woman who had offered her blood was gently pushed aside, the man who’d called himself Judah offering a wrist instead. Alaric nodded, unable to focus on anything else until he was fed. Only then could he come to terms with reality. Except, he would not take from only one of them. His eyes lifted to the woman who’d offered first, reaching a hand out for her. He passed a hard glance to the others as well, sharp eyes noticing the way the blood tainted each of their palms, spilled over the skin of their fingers. They had already sacrificed some of their blood, and he would only ask for a little more.

“Bitte, ich brauche zu viel,“ he said to them all, before turning his full attention to Judah.

"Wenn es nur von dir ist, wird es zu viel sein,“ he said, slowly, his tongue feeling heavy and unwieldy.

TRANSLATION: * “Please, I need too much.“
** “If it is just from you, it will be too much.”

[Mirella (DELETED 8125)]

All this ******* German was going to drive Mirella insane. However, she rationalized, it made sense. How long had it been since Alaric had walked the mortal plane? Had he ever known a word of English? Still, finally, she unfroze from against the wall and inched closer, very slowly, only to look down at her hand. The one she'd cut not minutes before - before Gregor had died - was now covered in filth. "I hope I don't get sick," she said, momentarily repulsed as she wiped the dirt and blood off on her bare leg.

"Um. Could someone please act as translator?" she said softly, not wanting to speak all too loud and abrupt. "Knew I should've learned German."

[Louvel von der Marck]

“He is saying that his need is too great to be sated by just one of us, Mirella.” The translation rolled from his mouth as he cast his gaze to each in the room evenly. There was a reminder of how much all of it could cost as he finally dropped his attention to Gregor’s lifeless body. “Judah will not be able to give him all of what he needs. None of us can individually. It will take each donating. Over a century without a drop is going to require more than a simple cut.”

Not that Louvel was an expert on what the true need of the vampire in their midst was. He was trying to be conservative in his guess and wondering how much of each of their eight pints on board was going to be required to get him back to his baseline. Whatever that was of their shared patriarch before he was reduced to the longest nap Loul had ever heard of. One of their lives had been offered up without second thought. One that brought them to this point and there was no turning back. Now it was their turn to step up and see it through.

“Nehmen Sie das Blut von uns allen. Es ist erhalten geblieben. Es ist deins.”

Louvel dismissed the wound on his hand as being a viable source. It was starting to cool and coagulate just as the human body was designed to do. Being that some were further in their gifts than the others their ability to heal faster was as well. Louvel was hardly an expert in the ways a vampire went about it but he had a pretty good guess. He rubbed the wound in the center of his palm to the side of his neck while in thought of it all body and mind.

“Beginnen Sie, wo Sie sich entscheiden.”

TRANSLATIONS:

* Take the blood of all of us. It has been preserved. It is yours.

** Start where you choose.

[Leonie von der Marck]

The pressure on Jude’s shoulder intensified at the pushing away of her wrist but only just; the Lioness would be whatever he needed her to be, and had been throughout the night…throughout their lives, actually, but it was no time for chivalry or misplaced guilt. Alaric, in all his living glory, needed them. Needed all of them, and what was a little more blood? They hadn’t raised him only to let him founder, and she had enough to offer him, and more.

Her arm holding the robe drooped slightly and her breath quickened, wheezy though it might be, at the sight of blood on Louvel’s neck. But the Patriarch hadn’t taken from any of them yet and she visibly calmed, realizing that it was only the cut he’d made in his palm. Her gaze drifted downward to her own, still weeping copious amounts of crimson. She’d have to have it looked at, most likely, unless any of them had first-aid training, but that was a worry for later on.

Without another thought against it, and a steely look placing itself firmly upon her features so none would defy her wishes again, she nodded and stepped forward once more, wrist out and she ready. She didn’t need to say anything more; her offer had been made and still stood firm.

[Judah Marck]

Jude's fight seemed to leave him once more as they all made their position clear, and Alaric stated his needs. It would be all of them then, together giving more of themselves into this endeavour, more than Judah had dared to ask for or dream they'd be willing to offer. It had been so unfair to ask them, and not for the first or last time did he consider just what he'd done to this family. The man's head bowed in defeat, or acceptance perhaps, he wasn't really sure anymore where the line lay between the two in that moment. Louvel had enough voice for all of them, even though he should be the one a shell of himself on the floor beside Gregor whom he had shared a unique and precious bond with. For Judah Gregor had been like a little brother, eager to grate on his nerves but when it mattered they were family but for Louvel he was something else entirely. Jude's gaze drifted to Leonie, reaching for her hand now; not to stop her but for the strength he needed to continue.

His fingers separated and clasped hers, curling them close so their wrists touched as she moved to offer once more her free arm to Alaric. Jude would be there if she grew too weak, ready to settle her gently to the stone floor and offer himself in replacement if Alaric chose it, for hadn't that been what Louvel had just offered? That he take what he needed in whatever order, or rhythm he desired. They were serving him, the great father and it felt strange to Jude to think that someone else might take some of the weight he'd been carrying for so many years, that responsibility for these people he so dearly loved. Was that a twitch of protectiveness? Unwillingness to let him take them from him? No, no he was simply in shock and afraid of exposing them to this unknown element. All these read of him had given them an insight into the kind of man he might be but the shadows could have changed him, time could have changed him. They did not know this man, even if he was there blood and now they were at his mercy. God help us all, he thought, head turning away to stare blankly at the dark stone floor while he waited for Alaric's choices to be made.

[Alaric von der Marck]

Something about the blood he consumed tasted different than Alaric remembered. He could not put his finger on why – he had not the wits to deconstruct the taste. It was not a bad taste, just different, and it sustained him just the same. The blonde was first – the tall one, who called himself Louvel. Alaric pushed himself up, he stood on weak legs, struggling against the stifling weight of gravity. He took from the neck, holding the body tight but only in a bid to keep himself standing. A low growl rumbled in his throat when he pulled himself away, a spark in old eyes as if he were arguing internally with the force that fought to keep him fed.

It demanded more, and yet Alaric had told it to stop.

Next was the woman – Leonie – who had offered first. He did not embrace her as he had the male; it would be inappropriate to do so. She deserved the respect of his distance, even as his canines pierced the tender flesh over the vein of her wrist. Hot blood rushed over his tongue and soothed the burn at the back of his throat. It demanded so much, and yet again he had to move with a robotic kind of insistence, his body his own enemy as he released Leonie’s wrist and watched as the twin wounds healed themselves.

He did the same with the second woman. It felt less appropriate to take from her – she seemed confused. She did not know the language, and nor did he know her name. They had not been introduced. But if she was willing, then he would take – if only to lessen the sacrifice made by the others.

And last, last he took from Judah. Alaric felt the weight of the moment. He knew that he was a stranger to them all. But they had brought him back. They had wanted to. This was what he needed, and though he did not like to take assumingly, he could not stop himself. He could not reason through it with a mind that felt like it housed a hive of bees. He could not exert willpower and ask that they instead bring him a mountain lion. If they knew what he was, they must know what he required. They must know upon what he fed.

From each he had taken only a little – enough to make them a little tired, but not enough to harm them. He was still thirsty; his muscles still ached and his skin felt like it was burning, but it was better than it had been. He would be able to hold out until … until when? Again, gravity took him. It lashed his limbs and forced him to the ground. He had to rely on the strength of the living to take him out, out into the hallways.

There were bright lights. There were voices. And there was a bed, soft and welcoming. Like a newborn baby he had had his bout of activity, and now he needed to sleep. The need for sleep, for rest, was ludicrous – and yet, it made more sense than it should have.

The Shadow Realm was a deep, dark ocean. Alaric von der Marck had been drowning, over and over again for over two centuries. He’d been peddling water, an invisible consciousness fighting for survival even against all odds. The spark of life had fought to remain shining. All that fight, all that peddling, all that struggle for air had cumulated to this point. Here, now, alive again. And all he wanted to do was sleep.

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