Prometheus Bound [Whit]
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
The Shadow’s hands were shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Whitaker was leading the way, and Peter was happy to trail behind. To walk in the wake of the younger man’s excitement, and his nervousness; to deal in silence with his own nervousness, and the repeated question in the back of his mind: is this the right thing to do?
Should he have told Whitaker anything? Or should he have let it slide? Should he have accepted the cruel realities of life, and lamented with the boy, rather than to have given him this hope of a future in which he could live? Could it be called living? Would Whit believe that it was living, or would he sooner or later resent Peter, and the way that he had butted his nose in, and changed everything? What if, tomorrow, there’s a cure? Peter shook his head. He sucked in a deep breath.
”The rules. That’s it. Do not use your abilities in front of humans. Do not give away what we are, do not reveal the secret in any way. Do not… they don’t like it when vampires feed on other vampires, either. But other than that? There aren’t any rules,” he said. He was certain there were even those who thought there were no rules, that the Masquerade was bunk. Peter didn’t have much of an opinion on the politics of it all. All he knew was that he wanted to live his life away from violence and drama, in a secluded little corner of the city away from anything and anyone who might harm him or those that he cared about.
”There are Fae in the wilderness who do not like our kind, so don’t linger out there or they’ll ravage you. And down in the sewers, that’s where the hunters and the paladins like to lurk. They, too, will kill you just for what you are,” he said. He didn’t say that one day Whit might be strong enough to kill them first. Peter himself couldn’t, wouldn’t – hadn’t even tried, and didn’t think that he ever would. It didn’t cross his mind to tell this young man that he could equip himself with weapons and go on some slaughtering spree. It wasn’t something that Peter himself would condone – instead, he condoned avoidance, and keeping to oneself.
He tentatively glanced sideways at his student. He was fearing that he was starting to sound like a mad man.
Should he have told Whitaker anything? Or should he have let it slide? Should he have accepted the cruel realities of life, and lamented with the boy, rather than to have given him this hope of a future in which he could live? Could it be called living? Would Whit believe that it was living, or would he sooner or later resent Peter, and the way that he had butted his nose in, and changed everything? What if, tomorrow, there’s a cure? Peter shook his head. He sucked in a deep breath.
”The rules. That’s it. Do not use your abilities in front of humans. Do not give away what we are, do not reveal the secret in any way. Do not… they don’t like it when vampires feed on other vampires, either. But other than that? There aren’t any rules,” he said. He was certain there were even those who thought there were no rules, that the Masquerade was bunk. Peter didn’t have much of an opinion on the politics of it all. All he knew was that he wanted to live his life away from violence and drama, in a secluded little corner of the city away from anything and anyone who might harm him or those that he cared about.
”There are Fae in the wilderness who do not like our kind, so don’t linger out there or they’ll ravage you. And down in the sewers, that’s where the hunters and the paladins like to lurk. They, too, will kill you just for what you are,” he said. He didn’t say that one day Whit might be strong enough to kill them first. Peter himself couldn’t, wouldn’t – hadn’t even tried, and didn’t think that he ever would. It didn’t cross his mind to tell this young man that he could equip himself with weapons and go on some slaughtering spree. It wasn’t something that Peter himself would condone – instead, he condoned avoidance, and keeping to oneself.
He tentatively glanced sideways at his student. He was fearing that he was starting to sound like a mad man.
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
Whit wondered for a moment if ‘abilities’ covered things like supernatural powers, the variety of which various media had covered for decades, or if it accounted for more mundane advances to human speed and strength. Probably both, if I was true that both existed. The ‘rules’ did not seem complicated in the least, an all of them appeared to be centered around the philosophy of avoiding exposure to humanity. He supposed the logic behind it was solid enough. No matter how many vampires there were, there surely had to be more humans, and people, as a general rule, tended to shun and outright punish those who did not conform to their group model. Research suggested this was true of the human mind even at a young age, and was evidenced in all classes and cultures.
Vampires were so far outside of the norm that the living being aware of them would mean eventual exploitation. Violence. Death. That was the nature of mankind, to wipe out any potential threat and assure its own self-serving survival. But eliminating threats was not always violent. There was the domestication of wild dogs so long ago that nobody really remembered when it had happened. There was the way humans had crushed the surface of the earth under the heels of their machines to pave over the homes and habitats of other creatures. Natural predators were kept in boxes called zoo or parks. Men and women had been neutralizing problems for a very long time. Just nobody thought of it that way.
One thing remained true though. The most dangerous manner of dealing with a threat was reserved for only the most intelligent of opposition. Vampires? They were just humans with a taste for flesh and, Whit assumed, the strength to match it.
Best not to think too hard on that.
“Understood.” He finally said as his hands slid into his pockets, his shoulders having rolled back. They were right outside of his apartment building a moment later, and he let himself in with a security code, holding the door open for Peter. There was an elevator at the back of the lobby, and Whit’s apartment was on the third floor at the end of the hall. But his mentor would have known that. There was nobody else there, which was part of why Whit had liked the building. People generally kept to themselves. He wasn’t a secretive man by nature, he just preferred for his home to be a place of silence and sanctuary. He wasn’t interested in socializing with neighbours on his days off or any of that. He just liked to decompress and be alone.
“Is there anything else I should bear in mind?” The fae sounded interesting, not that he intended to go search them out on the off chance they decided to try and kill him. Hunters in the sewers? What an odd location. He didn’t have any intention of going into the sewers, so he very much doubted it mattered.
Vampires were so far outside of the norm that the living being aware of them would mean eventual exploitation. Violence. Death. That was the nature of mankind, to wipe out any potential threat and assure its own self-serving survival. But eliminating threats was not always violent. There was the domestication of wild dogs so long ago that nobody really remembered when it had happened. There was the way humans had crushed the surface of the earth under the heels of their machines to pave over the homes and habitats of other creatures. Natural predators were kept in boxes called zoo or parks. Men and women had been neutralizing problems for a very long time. Just nobody thought of it that way.
One thing remained true though. The most dangerous manner of dealing with a threat was reserved for only the most intelligent of opposition. Vampires? They were just humans with a taste for flesh and, Whit assumed, the strength to match it.
Best not to think too hard on that.
“Understood.” He finally said as his hands slid into his pockets, his shoulders having rolled back. They were right outside of his apartment building a moment later, and he let himself in with a security code, holding the door open for Peter. There was an elevator at the back of the lobby, and Whit’s apartment was on the third floor at the end of the hall. But his mentor would have known that. There was nobody else there, which was part of why Whit had liked the building. People generally kept to themselves. He wasn’t a secretive man by nature, he just preferred for his home to be a place of silence and sanctuary. He wasn’t interested in socializing with neighbours on his days off or any of that. He just liked to decompress and be alone.
“Is there anything else I should bear in mind?” The fae sounded interesting, not that he intended to go search them out on the off chance they decided to try and kill him. Hunters in the sewers? What an odd location. He didn’t have any intention of going into the sewers, so he very much doubted it mattered.
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
Peter blinked at Whit as he was allowed into the apartment building. He paused just beyond the threshold. Anything else to bear in mind? Whit hadn’t batted an eyelash at anything so far. The fact that there were people and things that would want to kill him just for existing, all the things that he would be losing - Peter was wary. This seemed rushed. But Whit seemed determined. Peter cleared his throat and wandered down the hall just a little, waited for Whit to begin leading the way again.
”There’s a Masquerade and if you break it, it won’t just be the hunters looking for you, or the cops, it’ll be other vampires, too. Stronger ones. A whole group of them, and you won’t be able to escape. There are… yes, there are perks,” he admitted. He paused again. He considered all the things that he hated about how he had been turned, and about the adjustment period afterward. How much he hated blood and yet had to consume it to survive. About how he could never go for a run with the dogs at dawn anymore, or feel the kiss of the warmth of the sun on his skin, not without being burned to a crisp, or at least festered with blisters.
”But there are also… things are heightened. I can’t… for example, I can’t go anywhere near water. Large bodies of it, it terrifies me. Try to get me near the lake, or to cross a bridge, and I can’t do it. For the life of me, I can’t,” he said. Was that it? Maybe not. His OCD had got worse. But he was just waiting, always, anxiously, for the next thing to come along. The next hurdle to leap over. Maybe this was it. Whit, here, asking for this, when Peter had never done this before. This was a hurdle, and he was anxious, because he couldn’t let his long legs get caught on the bar. He couldn’t stumble and fall on his face. He had to clear this hurdle gracefully, without a scratch. For Whit’s sake.
He shrugged his broad shoulders and shook his head. No, at that moment he couldn’t think of anything else. Nothing major, though there were ten million different things hurtling around in the space of his skull; all things that won’t matter, not really, until after the deed was done. And that was it, that was one thing that Whit had to be aware of. That there was a risk.
”I’ve never done this before,” he said finally. Hesitantly.
”There’s a Masquerade and if you break it, it won’t just be the hunters looking for you, or the cops, it’ll be other vampires, too. Stronger ones. A whole group of them, and you won’t be able to escape. There are… yes, there are perks,” he admitted. He paused again. He considered all the things that he hated about how he had been turned, and about the adjustment period afterward. How much he hated blood and yet had to consume it to survive. About how he could never go for a run with the dogs at dawn anymore, or feel the kiss of the warmth of the sun on his skin, not without being burned to a crisp, or at least festered with blisters.
”But there are also… things are heightened. I can’t… for example, I can’t go anywhere near water. Large bodies of it, it terrifies me. Try to get me near the lake, or to cross a bridge, and I can’t do it. For the life of me, I can’t,” he said. Was that it? Maybe not. His OCD had got worse. But he was just waiting, always, anxiously, for the next thing to come along. The next hurdle to leap over. Maybe this was it. Whit, here, asking for this, when Peter had never done this before. This was a hurdle, and he was anxious, because he couldn’t let his long legs get caught on the bar. He couldn’t stumble and fall on his face. He had to clear this hurdle gracefully, without a scratch. For Whit’s sake.
He shrugged his broad shoulders and shook his head. No, at that moment he couldn’t think of anything else. Nothing major, though there were ten million different things hurtling around in the space of his skull; all things that won’t matter, not really, until after the deed was done. And that was it, that was one thing that Whit had to be aware of. That there was a risk.
”I’ve never done this before,” he said finally. Hesitantly.
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
Whitaker had something of a gift for understanding Peter. It wasn’t quite uncanny, but there was a lot that could go literally unsaid between them. Whit could have enjoyed silence with his former mentor for hours and walked away having had more of a conversation with the man than he did with the countless sea of his own peers. But Whit had been born out of his generation, really. He would have thrived in another time. The late 1900’s. Turn of the century maybe, when invention had been the driving force behind advancement, rather than war or the promise of death or wealth. He could tell that Pete wasn’t…not stalling per se. He could tell that it was a big deal to Peter, and that the student was, to an extent, trampling all over that.
Much like a young man unaware that his constant advances were unwanted by someone of the fairer sex.
But. He wanted to not die.
It seemed to Whitaker that the only real rule was to not get caught by humans. That seemed, as a concept, to be pretty easy to follow. He had no clue why the vampire he’d caught on film hadn’t been more careful when it came to feeding (or whatever they called it). So far, it seemed like the only thing he needed to do not to suffer punishment after death was not go out into the forest, not stay out during the day, and not be all flashy with the fangs and blood drinking. Not a problem. Right? It didn’t occur to Whit that things might have been a bit more complex than he’d originally believed.
Perks? Heightened senses? “I think I can handle those things, and if not. Well. I mean you will be able to help me, yeah?” Maybe he was blind, in a way, to the things that could go catastrophically wrong. Faustian deal in the making. He was fiercely independent. Not free-spirited per se, but he liked knowing that he could take care of things himself. He prized his isolation, and his individuality, and every second of his ability to provide for himself. Could he give that up for the price of living? Would he have to? He saw no reason to believe that was the case.
His key came out and he pushed it into his lock, turning so that the tumblers fell into place. He let himself inside and glanced back towards Peter. “I invite you in.” Formality. He had read about that in vampiric lore; it was consistent enough that he thought it might be true. And in a sense, it was more than just an invitation into his home.
“I understand your fear. Of the unknown, of venturing into the darkness, blind. I am right there with you in that. This is something I can only ever do once. Only ever do with you. You get it, right? There will only ever be one person who can be your first. But I need this gift of life, Peter. Please do this with me.”
Much like a young man unaware that his constant advances were unwanted by someone of the fairer sex.
But. He wanted to not die.
It seemed to Whitaker that the only real rule was to not get caught by humans. That seemed, as a concept, to be pretty easy to follow. He had no clue why the vampire he’d caught on film hadn’t been more careful when it came to feeding (or whatever they called it). So far, it seemed like the only thing he needed to do not to suffer punishment after death was not go out into the forest, not stay out during the day, and not be all flashy with the fangs and blood drinking. Not a problem. Right? It didn’t occur to Whit that things might have been a bit more complex than he’d originally believed.
Perks? Heightened senses? “I think I can handle those things, and if not. Well. I mean you will be able to help me, yeah?” Maybe he was blind, in a way, to the things that could go catastrophically wrong. Faustian deal in the making. He was fiercely independent. Not free-spirited per se, but he liked knowing that he could take care of things himself. He prized his isolation, and his individuality, and every second of his ability to provide for himself. Could he give that up for the price of living? Would he have to? He saw no reason to believe that was the case.
His key came out and he pushed it into his lock, turning so that the tumblers fell into place. He let himself inside and glanced back towards Peter. “I invite you in.” Formality. He had read about that in vampiric lore; it was consistent enough that he thought it might be true. And in a sense, it was more than just an invitation into his home.
“I understand your fear. Of the unknown, of venturing into the darkness, blind. I am right there with you in that. This is something I can only ever do once. Only ever do with you. You get it, right? There will only ever be one person who can be your first. But I need this gift of life, Peter. Please do this with me.”
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
Peter could have argued with Whit. The way he said he could only ever do this with Peter – it was wrong. There were plenty of other people in this city who could do this. Hell, Peter knew that if he deemed himself unready, there were numerous people whom he could call on to do it for him. Well, not numerous people. Two, really – Enver or Keara. The thought did cross his mind. But when he looked up, he knew that he wouldn’t.
There was something gleaming there in Whitaker’s eyes that had Peter dismissing any thought of fobbing this job off on someone else. It seemed wrong, somehow. Disrespectful. As if he weren’t taking Whit’s predicament seriously. As if he were taking the problem, folding it up, and giving it to someone else. He stepped into the apartment, and turned to close the door behind him. One hand rested on the door’s handle, the other spread across the cool wood. For a couple of seconds, his forehead rested against the wood, too. The cooling sensation did nothing to calm him. But at least he gave himself a little more time to steel his nerves.
”Yes, I will be here to help you. And no. Though I might be blind going into this, you won’t be. Not really. Because of the former – because I will be there to help you,” he said. Though, he knew even if he were blind going into this, he did have a crutch. There were people he could go to for help. There were people who would support Whit, just because Peter would ask it of them.
He turned. He wandered further into the room but otherwise stood, awkward and indecisive. When he caught Whit’s eye, it was only to nod, tersely. He was there, wasn’t he? He had agreed to come this far and he hadn’t turned his back. Although he had hesitated on the threshold, he had walked across it. And now here he was. When he took a breath it was shaky. His hands were shoved into his pockets.
”I have to… the way it was done with me… they drained me, first. They took all my blood, until I was about ready to pass out. And then they … she fed her blood back to me,” he said. His gaze was purveying the apartment. Where? Where would they do this? And would they do it straight away? It all seemed so clinical. And he supposed, talking about it like this, there was no other way it could be.
There was something gleaming there in Whitaker’s eyes that had Peter dismissing any thought of fobbing this job off on someone else. It seemed wrong, somehow. Disrespectful. As if he weren’t taking Whit’s predicament seriously. As if he were taking the problem, folding it up, and giving it to someone else. He stepped into the apartment, and turned to close the door behind him. One hand rested on the door’s handle, the other spread across the cool wood. For a couple of seconds, his forehead rested against the wood, too. The cooling sensation did nothing to calm him. But at least he gave himself a little more time to steel his nerves.
”Yes, I will be here to help you. And no. Though I might be blind going into this, you won’t be. Not really. Because of the former – because I will be there to help you,” he said. Though, he knew even if he were blind going into this, he did have a crutch. There were people he could go to for help. There were people who would support Whit, just because Peter would ask it of them.
He turned. He wandered further into the room but otherwise stood, awkward and indecisive. When he caught Whit’s eye, it was only to nod, tersely. He was there, wasn’t he? He had agreed to come this far and he hadn’t turned his back. Although he had hesitated on the threshold, he had walked across it. And now here he was. When he took a breath it was shaky. His hands were shoved into his pockets.
”I have to… the way it was done with me… they drained me, first. They took all my blood, until I was about ready to pass out. And then they … she fed her blood back to me,” he said. His gaze was purveying the apartment. Where? Where would they do this? And would they do it straight away? It all seemed so clinical. And he supposed, talking about it like this, there was no other way it could be.
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
Whitaker’s apartment was not large, but it was a testament to his tastes. The walls themselves were rather plain, beige, but he had taken the liberty of stenciling in some of his favorite quotes in Georgia Italics in various places – mainly for artistic effect. The paint he used for that was black, so it contrasted well. Where there were not quotes, there were paintings of an eclectic assortment, like portraits from the early 1900’s, possibly of family. Of wilderness landscapes, and birds in flight, of symbols, and patterns and the fleur-de-lis. He had several book cases in his living space. The room could have doubled easily for a library. He had a bedroom with nearly as many, and a spare bedroom that he used as his ‘game room’.
In place of a couch, he had a chaise lounge and a pair of recliners upholstered in the same material. They were set to a circle and clearly meant for intimate hosting.
Sylvia Plath reflected his uncertainty in life. At least at the moment.
Peter’s answer earned him a smile, even as he slid towards the kitchen. The whole draining of blood seemed like such a dirty process. Messy. He owned a tarp, and if they did it in the kitchen (which was laminated), the process of cleaning up any spillage was likely to be less of a hassle than if they did it on his carpet. He put the tea on out of instinct, filling the pot with water and putting it on the stove. He did it virtually every time he went into the room, so his body moved without the rue permission of his mind.
“Thank you.” He finally said, his thoughts coming to him slowly. Or maybe it was too quickly. Most likely, it was just that they were coming to him all at once and in a torrential downpour.
He let his hip rest against the edge of the counter once the dial on the stove had been turned. In his hand was a knife. A nondescript device other than its sharp edge (Whitaker personally polished his utensils and sharpened his cutlery). He glanced down to it for a moment, catching his reflection before he placed the thing down on the counter and began to pull his jacket off. His fingers trembled just a little bit as he manipulated buttons. He had every intention of disrobing as much as was appropriate. No sense in ruining his clothing.
“Grab the tarp from the laundry closet beside the washing machine, please. It’ll be folded up.” He gestured with his elbow in the direction he meant, just beyond the eat in part of the kitchen (which served as the only dining room). His shoes came off, and were staked along with his folded garments over the counter so that he could stand barefooted though clad in his slacks in the middle of his kitchen. His flesh was pale save for a collection of freckles scattered in varied patterns. Smooth.
In place of a couch, he had a chaise lounge and a pair of recliners upholstered in the same material. They were set to a circle and clearly meant for intimate hosting.
Sylvia Plath reflected his uncertainty in life. At least at the moment.
Peter’s answer earned him a smile, even as he slid towards the kitchen. The whole draining of blood seemed like such a dirty process. Messy. He owned a tarp, and if they did it in the kitchen (which was laminated), the process of cleaning up any spillage was likely to be less of a hassle than if they did it on his carpet. He put the tea on out of instinct, filling the pot with water and putting it on the stove. He did it virtually every time he went into the room, so his body moved without the rue permission of his mind.
“Thank you.” He finally said, his thoughts coming to him slowly. Or maybe it was too quickly. Most likely, it was just that they were coming to him all at once and in a torrential downpour.
He let his hip rest against the edge of the counter once the dial on the stove had been turned. In his hand was a knife. A nondescript device other than its sharp edge (Whitaker personally polished his utensils and sharpened his cutlery). He glanced down to it for a moment, catching his reflection before he placed the thing down on the counter and began to pull his jacket off. His fingers trembled just a little bit as he manipulated buttons. He had every intention of disrobing as much as was appropriate. No sense in ruining his clothing.
“Grab the tarp from the laundry closet beside the washing machine, please. It’ll be folded up.” He gestured with his elbow in the direction he meant, just beyond the eat in part of the kitchen (which served as the only dining room). His shoes came off, and were staked along with his folded garments over the counter so that he could stand barefooted though clad in his slacks in the middle of his kitchen. His flesh was pale save for a collection of freckles scattered in varied patterns. Smooth.
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
Peter hadn’t the opportunity to stop Whitaker. He was standing there in the middle of the living room, waiting for the where. Though he could have followed Whitaker into the kitchen, he didn’t. He was dithering. If Peter’s brain could have been taken out of his head and laid flat, two-dimensional, on a piece of paper, it would be square, with equal edges. A table, with all the proper thoughts filed into the proper columns; X always lined up against Y. He lingered, and paused, because he was planning. He hadn’t had the time to prepare for this, and so he was preparing now. He was staring at one of the quotes across the room but he wasn’t reading it, or absorbing it.
When next he glanced at Whitaker, when he absorbed the command that the boy gave him, he almost had to laugh. A tarp? And Whitaker had undressed, as if this was going to be… be what? Peter shook his head, his hands still in his pockets. He took a couple of steps closer to Whitaker. There was a calm, now. Almost. The information in his brain had all aligned and clicked into place, and he knew what he had to do. He knew what he should not do. What he could not do.
”Whitaker. I didn’t mean to scare you. This isn’t going to be Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” he said. Peter’s own turning was messy, but that was a given. He was a weak morsel tossed between two ravenous predators. He’d been covered in blood, but had it been his own? He remembered it being mainly Enver’s blood. They had fought to get their wrists to his mouth, and Enver had failed. His wrist had bled out over Peter. Keara’s blood wasn’t blood, but instead Shadow. Just like Peter’s was.
”I’m going to drain you and I’m not going to do it by slicing your throat and letting you bleed into the sink. Not unless you want me to pass out,” he said. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t making light of the situation. It was the complete and utter truth.
”And when I bleed it’s…” he shook his head. He picked up the knife that Whitaker had previously discarded and used the tip to slice a very small cut in his own palm. The blood didn’t bleed red. It was black, thick and ink-like as it seethed at the surface of the cut, but beyond that, as soon as it hit the atmosphere, it dispersed into shadow-like smoke. Gone. ”It’s not going to make a mess,” he explained. He glanced at the stove, and the water boiling.
”Are… yes, you should have some tea before we… and maybe something to eat, too. What’s your favourite food?” he asked. These were the things Whitaker could do. These were the choices he had. He could enjoy all his favourite things one last time before they were taken away from him forever.
When next he glanced at Whitaker, when he absorbed the command that the boy gave him, he almost had to laugh. A tarp? And Whitaker had undressed, as if this was going to be… be what? Peter shook his head, his hands still in his pockets. He took a couple of steps closer to Whitaker. There was a calm, now. Almost. The information in his brain had all aligned and clicked into place, and he knew what he had to do. He knew what he should not do. What he could not do.
”Whitaker. I didn’t mean to scare you. This isn’t going to be Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” he said. Peter’s own turning was messy, but that was a given. He was a weak morsel tossed between two ravenous predators. He’d been covered in blood, but had it been his own? He remembered it being mainly Enver’s blood. They had fought to get their wrists to his mouth, and Enver had failed. His wrist had bled out over Peter. Keara’s blood wasn’t blood, but instead Shadow. Just like Peter’s was.
”I’m going to drain you and I’m not going to do it by slicing your throat and letting you bleed into the sink. Not unless you want me to pass out,” he said. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t making light of the situation. It was the complete and utter truth.
”And when I bleed it’s…” he shook his head. He picked up the knife that Whitaker had previously discarded and used the tip to slice a very small cut in his own palm. The blood didn’t bleed red. It was black, thick and ink-like as it seethed at the surface of the cut, but beyond that, as soon as it hit the atmosphere, it dispersed into shadow-like smoke. Gone. ”It’s not going to make a mess,” he explained. He glanced at the stove, and the water boiling.
”Are… yes, you should have some tea before we… and maybe something to eat, too. What’s your favourite food?” he asked. These were the things Whitaker could do. These were the choices he had. He could enjoy all his favourite things one last time before they were taken away from him forever.
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
He was in the middle of pulling his socks off when Peter spoke. Whit’s hand was laid down on the counter for stability and his leg was bent at the knee so that he could use the fingers of his opposite hand to curl into the foot covering, pushing it down and away from his ankle. He liked to wear them dark, crew style with some sort of design. Usually, this was a tartan print or stripes of some variety. He balled the thing up and let it drop to the floor as he glanced up, his deeply blue eyes moving to settle on his mentor. “Oh.” He replied, even as he righted himself and stood there with one socked foot and one bare. He hadn’t bothered to remove his trousers (That was a little too personal for someone he used to call ‘professor’).
He hadn’t been scared. On the contrary, he had been about to stab his knife into his own wrist and get things really moving. He was already facing death; it was something he had come to terms with. So the only thing that was left for him was to march on. And there was no pain and no hesitation in him. Not really. That was how his mind worked, more like a machine than anything else. He was a creature of logic, which was not to say he was without emotion. He compartmentalized his feelings though, stuffed them inside a container marked ‘to be dealt with later’. The way he saw it; he didn’t have time to hold onto the trepidation of the unknown. Not when there was quite literally no other option.
“I am going to pass out at some point anyway, aren’t I?” Something told him that the transition from life to waking death was not so simple that it was seamless. It was not tranquil water. There were even great poems about it, ones that Whitaker had read in the past and loved for their message. Do not go gentle into that sweet night. Was there hidden truth there? No. The human being as a species was geared towards survival. Every fiber of their existence was wrapped around the concept of self-sustaining life and perpetuation. Well. Unless you had cancer. Maybe it really would be that easy, like nothing more than a brisk walk from a street corner called life to a dark alley in which monsters lurked.
No. That didn’t seem right.
He watched Peter bleed with an objectivity that surprised even him. Ah. So that was a thing. Was that common to vampires? A question he would ask another time.
“Alright.” He said. The water came to a boil shortly after and he prepared an infuser for himself. Something told him that if Peter was asking him about his favorite food that the whole being dead thing put a damper on the appetite. “Can I get you anything?” Because it was rude not to at least offer. He stirred honey into his tea once it was poured, and thought on the topic of last meals. Beef Wellington took time to make. “I’m not hungry.” He finally said. A lie, but his tea was really all he needed, he supposed, as he took that first sip.
He hadn’t been scared. On the contrary, he had been about to stab his knife into his own wrist and get things really moving. He was already facing death; it was something he had come to terms with. So the only thing that was left for him was to march on. And there was no pain and no hesitation in him. Not really. That was how his mind worked, more like a machine than anything else. He was a creature of logic, which was not to say he was without emotion. He compartmentalized his feelings though, stuffed them inside a container marked ‘to be dealt with later’. The way he saw it; he didn’t have time to hold onto the trepidation of the unknown. Not when there was quite literally no other option.
“I am going to pass out at some point anyway, aren’t I?” Something told him that the transition from life to waking death was not so simple that it was seamless. It was not tranquil water. There were even great poems about it, ones that Whitaker had read in the past and loved for their message. Do not go gentle into that sweet night. Was there hidden truth there? No. The human being as a species was geared towards survival. Every fiber of their existence was wrapped around the concept of self-sustaining life and perpetuation. Well. Unless you had cancer. Maybe it really would be that easy, like nothing more than a brisk walk from a street corner called life to a dark alley in which monsters lurked.
No. That didn’t seem right.
He watched Peter bleed with an objectivity that surprised even him. Ah. So that was a thing. Was that common to vampires? A question he would ask another time.
“Alright.” He said. The water came to a boil shortly after and he prepared an infuser for himself. Something told him that if Peter was asking him about his favorite food that the whole being dead thing put a damper on the appetite. “Can I get you anything?” Because it was rude not to at least offer. He stirred honey into his tea once it was poured, and thought on the topic of last meals. Beef Wellington took time to make. “I’m not hungry.” He finally said. A lie, but his tea was really all he needed, he supposed, as he took that first sip.
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
Peter shook his head, though he was watching Whit’s movements very closely. He was watching for tremors; for signs of nervousness or fear. Anything that might make the boy want to turn back. Or at least tell Peter to give it a night or two, and come back after he’d thought about it. If Peter had time to think about it, would he lose his nerve? He shook his head again. He had a feeling he wouldn’t. Because, deep beneath his own anxiety and bundle of knotted nerves, there was also a reserve of curiosity. There was a creature down there that was curious; he wanted to know whether this could be pulled off. What did it feel like, to have a bond with someone because they continue to live on the posterity of your blood? Would he be able to understand more of Keara’s oddities, if he did this?
Peter swallowed, and his eyes drifted from the boiled kettle, up to Whitaker’s face.
”No,” he said. Had he not mentioned that part already? Along with the sun, there’d be other things that Whitaker would have to sacrifice. ”I can’t drink, or eat anything anymore. Nothing but…” he swallowed, and glanced down at his own finger, where he had nicked it. The cut had healed already, the skin having stitched itself back together with ease. Cuts and bruises never did last longer than a few minutes. The deeper wounds could heal in a few days. The worst wounds seemed to only take a week. He didn’t continue. It was implied, really, that the only thing he could consume was blood.
”There’s a very high probability that you will be the same. Unless you walk the path of the Allurist, you will not be able to eat any food. Nothing. You’ll just bring it back up again. The same goes for tea,” he said, gesturing to the infuser. Maybe this would be the straw to break the camel’s back. Maybe this would cause Whitaker to halt, and to think.
”My path is as a Shadow. It’s the same path as my own sire. Keara Aithne,” he said, as if Whitaker might know the name. But why should he? It was a name perhaps well known in the vampiric community, as she was one of the few, one of the rare elders. As a woman, she fascinated Peter. ”Maybe it runs in the blood. Maybe you’ll be the same,” he said, with a slight frown. He didn’t know. This was one thing that he did not know. One thing, he supposed, that they would find out. Together.
Peter swallowed, and his eyes drifted from the boiled kettle, up to Whitaker’s face.
”No,” he said. Had he not mentioned that part already? Along with the sun, there’d be other things that Whitaker would have to sacrifice. ”I can’t drink, or eat anything anymore. Nothing but…” he swallowed, and glanced down at his own finger, where he had nicked it. The cut had healed already, the skin having stitched itself back together with ease. Cuts and bruises never did last longer than a few minutes. The deeper wounds could heal in a few days. The worst wounds seemed to only take a week. He didn’t continue. It was implied, really, that the only thing he could consume was blood.
”There’s a very high probability that you will be the same. Unless you walk the path of the Allurist, you will not be able to eat any food. Nothing. You’ll just bring it back up again. The same goes for tea,” he said, gesturing to the infuser. Maybe this would be the straw to break the camel’s back. Maybe this would cause Whitaker to halt, and to think.
”My path is as a Shadow. It’s the same path as my own sire. Keara Aithne,” he said, as if Whitaker might know the name. But why should he? It was a name perhaps well known in the vampiric community, as she was one of the few, one of the rare elders. As a woman, she fascinated Peter. ”Maybe it runs in the blood. Maybe you’ll be the same,” he said, with a slight frown. He didn’t know. This was one thing that he did not know. One thing, he supposed, that they would find out. Together.
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Re: Prometheus Bound [Whit]
Path.
That term was not new to him in the slightest, but the way that Peter used it made it seem like the definition had changed. He mentioned specific types. Allurist. Shadow. Whitaker had no frame of reference to understand quite what either of those meant, and he wanted to know. But everything needed to come in its proper order. He assumed that if there was anything vastly different about being a vampire as compared to being human, Peter would have told him on the outset. Whit could live with minor things like hiding out, only going out at night, not eating. He forgot to eat all of the time anyway – there was a reason that he was so lithe. Of the things that he wanted to experience in life, those tiny details were not so great as the feats he had yet to have a hand in.
He wanted to fall from the sky and feel the wind whip against his hair and skin. He wanted to see the great wonders of the world. He wanted to walk where ancient men had stepped before, and touch the same things that they had in their lives. He wanted desperately to have a great adventure, feel water wash over his flesh as he slid into the clear blue waters near a coral reef or dance like a crazy person in the snow, with nobody there but himself as a companion. He wanted to do things that were wild and that let him feel free. He needed that. He needed to feel alive and free, and there was nothing in the world that could stand in the way of that.
Courage. Peter was stalling again. Whitaker, on some level, understood why that was. He got that the man wanted to give him the chance to be sure that it was what he really wanted. And Whit craved immortality with every fiber of his being. He had spent the days after getting his prognosis shut away from the world. He had been sick at himself and at all of humanity. He had cried for days, had hated and loathed the act of death itself because he could not escape it. Because he felt so powerless against reality and fate. He felt tiny, and trapped and insignificant. Like he had never felt before.
He refused to feel that again.
So he reached to grab up the knife he had set down just a moment before, and without hesitation, he lifted it and sank the thing right into his neck. Immediately two things happened. First, he went a little bit numb. Well, not at the site of the wound itself, but his toes did, and his legs began to tingle. His pupils dilated. Blood began to pool around the metal and drip. If he pulled it out, the red would spurt his life away in seconds. He let go of it, and the handle stuck out of him. Every time his heart beat, the object trembled. He trembled too, like he was unsure in his footing.
Tears gathered in his eyes.
He would have freedom to live, or he would die. End of discussion. Hands balled into fists, and he mouthed the word ‘now’.
That term was not new to him in the slightest, but the way that Peter used it made it seem like the definition had changed. He mentioned specific types. Allurist. Shadow. Whitaker had no frame of reference to understand quite what either of those meant, and he wanted to know. But everything needed to come in its proper order. He assumed that if there was anything vastly different about being a vampire as compared to being human, Peter would have told him on the outset. Whit could live with minor things like hiding out, only going out at night, not eating. He forgot to eat all of the time anyway – there was a reason that he was so lithe. Of the things that he wanted to experience in life, those tiny details were not so great as the feats he had yet to have a hand in.
He wanted to fall from the sky and feel the wind whip against his hair and skin. He wanted to see the great wonders of the world. He wanted to walk where ancient men had stepped before, and touch the same things that they had in their lives. He wanted desperately to have a great adventure, feel water wash over his flesh as he slid into the clear blue waters near a coral reef or dance like a crazy person in the snow, with nobody there but himself as a companion. He wanted to do things that were wild and that let him feel free. He needed that. He needed to feel alive and free, and there was nothing in the world that could stand in the way of that.
Courage. Peter was stalling again. Whitaker, on some level, understood why that was. He got that the man wanted to give him the chance to be sure that it was what he really wanted. And Whit craved immortality with every fiber of his being. He had spent the days after getting his prognosis shut away from the world. He had been sick at himself and at all of humanity. He had cried for days, had hated and loathed the act of death itself because he could not escape it. Because he felt so powerless against reality and fate. He felt tiny, and trapped and insignificant. Like he had never felt before.
He refused to feel that again.
So he reached to grab up the knife he had set down just a moment before, and without hesitation, he lifted it and sank the thing right into his neck. Immediately two things happened. First, he went a little bit numb. Well, not at the site of the wound itself, but his toes did, and his legs began to tingle. His pupils dilated. Blood began to pool around the metal and drip. If he pulled it out, the red would spurt his life away in seconds. He let go of it, and the handle stuck out of him. Every time his heart beat, the object trembled. He trembled too, like he was unsure in his footing.
Tears gathered in his eyes.
He would have freedom to live, or he would die. End of discussion. Hands balled into fists, and he mouthed the word ‘now’.