Death Itself Was Undone [VDM]

[Leonie von der Marck]

Judah’s hand on her waist had steadied her almost as much as the phone call to her father had, but nothing could quite cut through and dissipate the panic that refused to leave Leonie’s system as whispered and spoken words echoed back through time and memory, reflecting those Oskar had repeated only a short time before.

Waiting.
Birthright.
Sorcery.
Tradition.
Blood.
Alaric…

All of a sudden, they all made sense. They all had some deeper meaning. The night her abilities had been out of control, inspired by a passionate rage, she now knew what her father had wanted to talk with her about: this very thing, this very night. A birthright she would have inherited when he passed away, like the others were supposed to, but that had instead come too soon. He had regrets over that, over neglecting his familial role that led to her being in attendance instead, but, after cursing his name in a brief, intense muttered oath, Oskar had spoken with a strange mix of pride and fear both over what Judah had proposed she represent: Hohepriester.

It was only a placeholder role, she knew. Her blood was needed, the same that ran through the veins of the last of her line who had tried to perform this very rite in Alaric’s place. The ancestor who had, foolishly, died without making known provisions or instructions for his heir, leaving the entire lineage in the dark from that night forward. It had been a failure in every meaning of the word, one that had affected the lineage deeply, until tonight. And as that door was heaved open, as torches illuminated the room until the family crest burned high above them, Leonie could feel her heart beginning to pound within her chest. Foreign symbols were carved into the walls, as far as she could see. Some were vaguely recognizable from those texts she used to study. Oskar had quickly explained what would be there, what the ritual seemed to require, but he himself had only seen the room itself the one time and could not promise nothing had changed.

Still, as Leonie allowed herself to draw a deep breath of the damp, dusty air that seemed so still even with living people inside, she forced her mind through the building fear in favor of a sense of awe. It all seemed untouched, a layer of dust coating everything in sight. Her eyes moved skyward to take in the iron chandelier above, burning brightly now with the physical reminder that all of it was and had ever been to one end: reviving the original von der Marck who had created everything they were. An uncertainty fell upon her as she thought upon the patriarch, who’s handsome but fearsome countenance had only been seen in portrait and etching by any of those still living. What would he think, she wondered, to see what they had become? Would he be proud of the continued prosperity of the family as a whole, even though at least some of it had been obtained through nefarious and underhanded means? Or would he be as disappointed as most of the elders were in so many of them – especially in herself?

She swallowed then, trying to bite back the roiling emotions swirling through her consciousness as her gaze took in the carved table next. Narrow rivulets ran from each place, meeting at a pit in the center. She didn’t want to think about what those were for, though she already knew. It seemed almost obvious when staring at that table, even if Oskar hadn’t given her the details of what little he knew as fact, that blood would be required for this ritual, as well as some kind of relic. Almost idly, she wondered how much blood had been spilled in Alaric’s name before, and if their attempt would go the way of all the others.

But such negative thoughts had no place – Judah was quite intent that they would be successful, he’d all but said as much. There didn’t seem to be any room for failure, and in all honesty, Leonie was no longer so certain they would. Not if that relentless, invasive sort of fear was anything to go by, one that spoke of all sorts of unknown terrors just waiting for them in the ethers.

She drew another breath of the disturbed air, trying to stifle the wheeze that wanted to rise as she moved closer to slide a hand over the old wooden surface before looking up at the gathered von der Marcks. In a voice measured and calm, one that belied the still-roiling tempest beneath the surface of her immovable facade, at last, she broke the silence ensuing.

“Well… here we are, Judah. Now what?”

[Judah Marck]

Judah looked between them for what felt the millionth time that night, feeling the weight of their expectations bearing down upon him and he had the most fleeting sense of wrongness, like the weight had become too much and perhaps he couldn't carry it any longer. "Now what?" He repeated, stepping closer to Gregor and Louvel, situating himself between the two tall blondes. "Well, now we begin. I ask each of you step into your place. As discussed the ingredients have been prepared by Gregor and Louvel who have a better understanding of the magic that is behind this ritual, when it is time the ritual knife will be passed and we will each make a small cut in our palm, offering our blood to our ancestor, to summon him. There is an incantation which will be read out, but the intention behind it is most important, pour all of your strength and feeling into it if you can." Judah gestured to each of them, pointing out their place and aiding them in moving towards each spot of the table.

It was time, it was happening and he just hoped they were prepared. Judah excused himself to gather the book and the items that he would need to throw into the gate once open, to unlock the door and welcome Alaric back into the realm. It was no easy task, some of the horrors the three of them had had to face while collecting the information and items made him shudder. One such item was particularly disturbing to him, though the bones and worm filled dirt from a graveyard wasn't exactly pleasant, it was the zombies ears that truly made him feel the sting of bile at the back of his throat. The three men had been informed of where to find them, that the quarantine zone held other horrors, but zombies wandered there freely. He couldn't quite believe his ears, and his eyes felt utterly deceived when he finally saw one. It was the first time in years a prayer had left his lips in earnest, not just for a sermon or in song. He felt the need to reach for his wavering faith, clutching it to his breast and hoping it would help them return from this task unharmed.

Judah lifted the bowl of zombie ears, placing them safely within reach, easy to access in case they needed it. Something about the fae creatures that hovered through out the wilderness, the ones that whispered in your ear to try and make you cause harm to others or yourself, the kinds that would bite and nip at you. If something felt as if it were weakening, a darkness trying to escape then tossing zombie ears was supposed to help. He wasn't sure it was entirely relevant to this particular ritual they attempted, but surely it couldn't hurt? After all, they were trying to summon an ancestor back from death, really, they were already messing something far greater than themselves. "Just... Try not to look too closely at the ingredients, trust me, it helps." He muttered, to the women specifically, the others had already had their moment of horror or what was occurring. "If you are all ready.... We will begin. Louvel and Gregor, i'll ask you to perform the opening ritual, once this has happened we will each cut our palm and declare our desire to have Alaric returned. Let your blood run into the channel, you won't need much, a long shallow cut is best." He picked up the ritual dagger, miming the action to show what he meant. "Once the blood is spilled we repeat, over and over, chant "Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck", we ask him to return and hope he hears his blood calling."

A deep sigh left him, a visible show of personal preparation, the man rolling his head upon his neck to let it crack and take away some of the tension that held there. "Are we all clear? I will try to help, look out for our cues." He pointed to Louvel, Gregor and himself, "And we will guide you." He cleared his throat, stepping into his own place at the table, twisting one of the von der Marck he rings he wore upon his fingers, a familiar nervous habit. "Lou, G-baby ... You are up."

[Mirella (DELETED 8125)]

Having Judah to guide, to tell them what to do. That was what grounded Mirella as she took the opportunity to bundle her hair up with a tie from a hidden pocket. She breathed slow and deep, closing her eyes and focusing on the intention. To herself, she repeated the words thrice, to memorize, "Zurück zu uns," just those three words repeated to memorize them. Languages were not quite easy to the firedancer. She hoped one day her son would speak more than she.

Adam.

The thought of him, while she was in this room, was not one of fear or hope or desperate longing. Instead, it was a thought of joy, of love, of purpose. That he would know his heritage, know his ancestor, put steel in her intent, and brought a look of such ferocity to her eyes that she shook her head, looking at Judah as if to say, I will not look away, I am not weak-hearted. Granted, that meant nothing for her stomach.

Rolling her shoulders, wrists, and cracking her knuckles, Mirella too breathed a sigh, far less weighted, and perhaps the most free sound that had escaped her in a long time that wasn't part of her show.

She was ready.

[Louvel von der Marck]

“And once you start do not second guess yourself. Just remain focused. What you call forth can take you back from where it came from and you will be lost within its hold. There is always a price to pay for what you will be attempting. An offering of the unknown, a sacrifice is something you must be prepared for each and every time. What it may be will only be revealed at the moment it is required. You cannot question it. You will answer with it and continue on.”

Mara von der Marck’s voice was gone when Louvel eyes glanced around to those that were focused on him. While Judah effectively demonstrated with the ritual knife what would be expected he inhaled the scent of centuries that was fixed deep in the stone and the dirt that embraced it beyond. It had been nearly as long since Alaric von der Marck had stood on the soil that he had claimed as his own. Beneath the glow of fire and curious stares coming from family who was drowning in anticipation just as much as he was he finally released the air in his lungs.

It was then that he felt the cool dance across the spans of his wide shoulders, the chill that it set down his spine. A reminder perhaps or a final prompt that this was the time. All of those times his mother had made a reference to wrapped into one. The moment all would come undone as it had been known. For gain or loss all of it would forever change. Mossy orbs passed their focus over the rings on the fingers that he trusted most on two sets of hands. It was then that he spoke. While he did the flames suspended by iron from the walls began to dance in an unnatural flow. Everything including the air seemed charged, defiant from what had been the expected. Nothing deterred him. Not even a last glance to the icy blue orbs that he had froze in to the point of countless little deaths.

“We call forth thee from the flames, the air and the earth that holds thee. We summon thee from the abyss. We summon thee to come forth to this circle and to reveal thee to the blood that flows in unity, in need of thee. We summon thee to come home, to reign.”

Without any warning the flames waivered in a pattern that was guided by the air that flowed in a circular pattern. The force slow building taking the light and pulling it with the flow. A deep vibration came from the stone beneath their feet. One that should be ignored if the focus was solid and united as it was required. Louder Louvel’s voice raised reciting the words yet again. The depths of its true tone coming forth with the progression of each word as it thundered from his body.

“We call forth thee from the flames, the air and the earth that holds thee. We summon thee from the abyss. We summon thee to come forth to this circle and to reveal thee to the blood that flows in unity, in need of thee. We summon thee to come home, to reign. Break through the roots that bind thee, tear from what chokes and rise!”

There was no question in the demand of his voice as it caused his face to tighten, the veins on his neck rolling to the surface like thick ropes beneath the skin as it stretched. The spidering of venous lines at his temples spread with the tension of his energy building in demand for his words to be answered and accounted for. Again he repeated the words, his eyes piercing while cutting upward to those around the table as he did.

[Leonie von der Marck]

Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.

Come back to us, Alaric von der Marck.

Leonie had to stifle a shudder at the words that would purportedly assist in quite literally raising the dead, if there was yet any doubt to be had about that. There, deep in the earth, beneath the old family estate in the ancient ritual room, it was even easier to believe in what they were about to do. For the first time in a long time, someone had an expectation of her, and it was this that lent her the strength she needed to follow through. Her fingers stole around the pendant she’d donned that night – in a fit of whimsy and nostalgia, maybe – never realizing the significance of wearing a piece of von der Marck history that very night. Her grandfather had gifted it to her the night of her eighteenth birthday, and family legend and rumor had it that the diamond and ruby trinket had once belonged to Alaric’s wife herself.

Defiantly, as she took her place at the table, she glanced over the ritual ingredients, despite Judah’s warning. Though the things she could see were highly unpleasant and Leonie was many things, prissy was not one of them. No, she was reckless and sometimes foolish, always seeking out an adrenaline rush – whether it was obtained via some idiotic ghost hunt in abandoned buildings as a teen or having raucous sex in a very public place on a semi-regular basis, there were very few things she wouldn’t try at least once. An immovable, unreadable look settled over her features as she took in the contents of the bowl Jude placed nearby. Rotting ears, coated in congealed blood and greyish-colored flaps of skin filled it to the brim and though that didn’t necessarily bother her, the thought of how he’d gotten them gave her pause. For a heavy moment, she wished he’d looped her into the preparations for this night. It had to have taken awhile… and there were some things she probably would have been well-suited, even useful for.

She set her jaw, her palms flat on the cool stone of the table before her, and took a deep breath as Judah called Louvel and Gregor to begin. Her eyes narrowed slightly as Louvel began to speak, and she had to repress a surprised sound as the very air changed, as the flames began to dance and flicker… and again as the floor shook beneath her designer shoes.

A silent hiss rushed past her lips at the feel of the energy building among them. She could feel it flowing as her palms pressed more firmly down, felt the very thrum of that strength Judah had prevailed upon. It flowed through her, singing in her veins, energizing every single breath she drew as the words spun around and around them. The depth and tenor of Louvel’s voice changed, and as her gaze lit upon him, Leonie could not help the hint of a smile at so much power showing clearly in him, flowing easily as a vocal demand.

It was addictive, that strange, unbelievable feeling stirring deep as she almost forcibly connected with the rest of her blood surrounding the table. Better than the most intense sex, the wildest nights, the highest adrenaline rushes she had ever been able to muster. After a few heart-pounding moments of it, she made herself focus once more upon the things Jude had impressed upon them: strength, intent… the desire to succeed in reviving the patriarch where so many others had failed. But failure… she thought upon it again. It wasn’t an option.

Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.

And so, not thinking much past the present, and nothing more about the consequences that wanted to introduce doubts and second guessing back into her mind, Leonie simply honed in on the growing intensity and let it flood her, let her strength and stubbornness flow back and join the rest.

The floor shook again and a breath hitched in her throat.

Was it working?

[Judah Marck]

The power was rising, it was felt in every inch of him, his very skin wanting to crawl away and hide from it even as he thrilled and thrummed with it, as he sought to harness it to hold for his own. Power, great and fulfilling, power that would bring him to them. Fear had no place within him in this moment, he had no room for it other than as a nervous nagging in the back of his mind. They stood on the cusp of of the greatest achievement, and most horrifying, to overcome death itself. As the flames flickered, the air growing thick, Judah threw to the middle of the table a handful of the ears managing not to cringe.

It was clear who held power in the room, who had abilities that stretched beyond the mortal world. The way it swelled and grew as they put more of themselves into it, when he glanced around he could see Leonie leaning forward expectantly watching Louvel with a sense of awe that transcended just admiration based on his looks or enthusiasm. She could feel it. Gregor too had a new intensity to him, something different that he couldn’t help but grin at. It was beautiful, and he hoped Mirella had steeled herself also, offering the woman an encouraging glance.

As the chanting reached a crescendo Judah tore the pieces of journal up, throwing them into the darkness that seemed to be forming in the middle of the large stone table. Each item had been thrown in, but it didn’t seem enough. The ring on his finger felt heavy, an old item passed down for generations, the von der Marck family initials upon it in elegant engraving done painstakingly by the hand of a talented artist and that which all the ring replicas were based on but none quite as unique or advanced in age as this piece. On a whim he slipped it from his finger, bringing it to his lips, before releasing it to into the gathering shadows.

Something swelled within him, a knowledge that it was time for blood, with a quick glance to his darling Louvel and G-baby he had the confirmation. Now. He reached blindly for the dagger, extending his arm over the table, watching the blade as the light of the flames licked at the metal temptingly where it rested upon his outstretched palm. The slice he made was long and shallow, superficial enough that wouldn’t cause permanent damage but substantial enough to cause a flood of crimson to flow free from the parting of flesh. Droplets fell into the groove in the table that began on the table before him, each of them had one that created a pattern towards the center. Dagged was passed, for Mirella to take and perform her sacrifice.

“Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.” The chant was formed upon his lips, his request in return for that which he gave.

[Mirella (DELETED 8125)]

The dagger looked big, menacing, to Mirella, as she took it from Judah, light of the flames mesmerizing in its reflective surface, stained with her cousin's blood. She flipped the blade for a moment, before shaking her head ever so slightly, still chanting, and returning it to its prior orientation. In this place, she would be the one to worry about the potential for one of them to get an infection. But these were her family members. Her blood was theirs.

She placed the same edge that was bloodied with Jude's blood against her less dominant palm, moving the knife quick and sharp over her skin, just deep enough a cut to start welling up blood. She held her hand in its proper place over a groove in the table, watching, mesmerized, as drops of blood fell from her palm.

The energy was palpable, and Mirella loved the feeling, as she passed the knife on to the next. Yet, at the same time, so were the words they spoke. The words that flowed almost subconsciously from her lips now.

"Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck."

The words were nearly as reverent as if she were praying them, praying that Alaric would return. In a way, in a sense, she was. As she held her hand steady, she tilted her head back, still speaking, but eyes cast to the heavens.

[Louvel von der Marck]

The Keeper stood firmly where he was planted as if the von der Marck’s had discovered a navigable vessel deep below the surface of the earth. Louvel towered at the helm beside his family and continued to recite his words as if they were commands to answer a call to arms. It was what was in the power surrounding him that grabbed Louvel and inspired him to not deviate from what was the goal, the only acceptable outcome. The room continued to demonstrate signs that the stone, the flames were on the rise. Each rumble beneath their feet was coupled with the sweep of the flames licking the walls that embraced them in the storm they were riding. There was no turning back. They came together for one and they were not leaving until he was recovered. With another rise of of the Keeper’s voice the demand for Alaric von der Marck to rise was clear with the force of his repeated words.

“Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.”

The blade in his hand was the tactile confirmation that this would be another step forward through that unseen porthole that would permit their patriarch to return home. The strong length of his fingers rolled up his left sleeve. The steel sharp edged positioned over his open palm. His teeth lined up hard as the blade went upward splitting a deep divide to the thick, calloused surface of flesh beneath. The thick skin that had weathered the nearly impossible summits, the last ditch efforts to survive in the most remote and unforgiving places the world traveler conquered gave way to the purpose of the blade. Then and there the rich thin fluid surfaced like a river flowing downward. Over his fingers the blood ran like it knew where it was destined to fall. The crimson line of offering raced to the center just like the other sources had.

Mossy orbs as vivid as the wilderness that had sheltered him, called to him with the same intensity and purpose as the family blood before him rose to find the von der Marck lioness beside him. The blade was offered with the red line along it’s business end evident. All of it combined would soon find the depths of her skin. All would be one in that moment, a single force in the center of the room that had brought them together.

“Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.” He called out again as his blood continued to flow with no effort on his part to stop it. The burn left in its wake was empowering. “Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck!”

[Leonie von der Marck]

The floor shook more as Leonie accepted the knife from Louvel with an intense look that reflected the absolute tempest within her, her fingers grasping the offering tight from the Keeper as she continued joining her voice with the others. The power sang through them, thrummed even in the handle of the blood-stained ritual blade and with no more than a deep breath between chants, the Lioness sliced with one sure cut into her palm and squeezed it over the channel in the table. Crimson rivulets flowed freely down her wrist and over her fingers; perhaps she’d cut a bit too deeply but, as her father often said, anything worth doing was worth doing right. This was no different; no. If anything, this was the ultimate thing worth doing and as her thoughts fell loosely upon Oskar, knowing he was riddled with anxiety and would want a report as soon as the ritual was complete, she released another slow breath between chants and let her shoulders finally relax. They were in the thick of it now; there would be no turning back. There was a heavy sense of peace that came with that knowledge.

In a few moments, there was a satisfactory amount of her blood in the channel, rushing downward to join the rest, to truly make them one and join together for their sacred task. The chanting continued, rising, echoing off the damp stone walls and multiplying upon itself and Leonie felt the link to each of them deepening, growing into something solid and tangible, rather than simple words and soul-deep knowledge. Her gaze slid from one to the other of those gathered, an intense look landing upon Judah for a moment as she wondered if all was going to his plans, before moving to and lingering on the tall blonde cousin who would next take the blade. With a nod, she handed it off to Gregor, handle side first, before hazel eyes moved back to the center of the ancient table.

Her blood-slicked palm was placed firmly down upon the stone while the other wrapped once more around the pendant; somehow it felt right to join her offering with the solid object rather than waste a drop, though she didn’t know why. It didn’t matter much, though, as the energy thrumming through the room took her once more, and her gaze locked upon the center again. Intently, she watched where their blood pooled, the words still falling from her lips like a mantra.

[Alaric von der Marck]

Existence was once a tangible word, with meaning that could not be misconstrued.

Existence consisted of the senses; touch, taste, sight, smell, sound. Once, Alaric von der Marck might have declared that existence required the steady beating of a heart, one that might slow or race in times of relaxation or terror. The long years and the longer nights had taught him that a beating heart was overrated. Or that it belonged to the living, and that the undead did not exist. When years turned into decades and decades turned into centuries, one’s philosophy on existence morphed and changed. At first, one clung to it like to a lifeboat after the ship had sunk. One floated on that lifeboat on an ocean wracked by storms, before sprawling on the bottom of it to slowly die of thirst and sun stroke. Life, such as it was, drifted away like an oasis, and island that would never be returned to. Life had to be relinquished, eventually. Humanity had to be let go.

Existence did not require a beating heart, but it did require a sound mind. When time no longer had its claw-like grip on the trajectory of one’s life, the importance of goals became paramount. To keep himself from becoming rusty, old, decrepit in mind and spirit, if not in body, Alaric did his best to continue to learn; he did not sleep, not one single week did he sleep, no month was spent in the cool furrows of the earth. As tempting as it may be, the Swabian was not ready to let himself go. If he slept, if he succumbed to the exhaustion that so often threatened to overwhelm him, he worried that he might never wake up again.

Which was why he created for himself a goal that would continue to grow, one that would always pique his interest, his curiosity always bringing him back. The von der Marck lineage flourished. It split, it went in numerous directions. He tried to keep tabs on all variations of the name, of the places it made home, but mostly he focused on the hub. Canada. In order to help this family of his, he had to learn. Money was invested and regimes were concocted; business thrived. Money ruled the world, and in order to become part of the upper echelon of society, the family required the funds.

Death came too soon. Just as he had settled, the estate growing and buzzing around him, death had found him in the form of a traitor. One of his own blood sold him out for… for what? Alaric never did get to find out. There was no time for conversation. The sun was high in the sky and he could barely fight back before his head was severed from his neck and his heart removed from his chest, his body crumbling to ash.

Existence, Alaric soon determined, required the senses. Touch, taste, sight, smell, sound. These were not real in the Shadow Realm. These, he determined, were figments of a dying attachment to the real word, tethers holding him there until finally they snapped, one by one. The lifeboat, too, was sucked beneath the violent rush of the ocean and existence ceased to exist. At first there were nightmares; never-ending images of a life he’d left behind, both human and otherwise. And then he started to question whether he’d ever existed at all. The questions were too baffling, and the very thought that life was just a mere spark, drifting through space and time, through a sluggish sea of nothingness – a brightness that flashed for a mere second before waning and disappearing in the distance – was debilitating. He was nothing, and he was no one.

____________________________________

Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.


A voice, in the dark.


Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.


Voices. Numerous. Breaking into a consciousness that had ceased to exist, a spark in a life that had been smothered by death.


Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.


A stirring, a suck and a pull, an awakening of thought; a weightless, bodiless soul unfurling, pulled toward the light. Colour. What was colour, after so long in the dark? Fire, blood and stone.


Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.


A way out. The soul did not know who it was or where it was; it was made only of instinct. Even in death, the instinct to survive was paramount. It drifted and pushed, the swirling window of colour, of life, so close and yet… and yet…


Zurück zu uns, Alaric von der Marck.


He could not get out. Something was holding him back. A weakness, a lack of strength to break through the last wall. Blood. He could smell it! He could feel it, a flurry of nerves, of life, of pain. Oh, it hurt. But it was real!

A voice, disembodied, reached where the soul could not. A voice that spoke no words, but only an anguished cry – guttural, frustrated, angry and desperate. A soul that wanted to escape, and yet the means were just beyond its reach.

____________________________________

The room seemed to shrink, the walls eager to learn the secrets of the whorl of shadows expanding at the centre of the ritual. A veritable black hole swirling and surging with magical energy, wanting to suck the life from the room, the force of it whipping at clothes, tugging at hair, a wormhole to the land of the dead. The flames struggled and flickered in their sconces, crackling and whooshing as the potent oil kept them alive, valiantly resisting the pull of death. For now.

No voice roared from the depths of the shadows – not to greet the air, or echo from the stone walls. Instead, the voice echoed in the skulls of those gathered, a mental blast sent from death. A bond was forged, whether they knew it or not. Blood of his blood, stretched into the future and shed to bring him back from the past.